Bookends
by Nightwitch87
Summary: "And it's this little gesture that provides such a relief in that moment, the normality of it. Because beneath the awkwardness of the two years, you've both been here before, you know the routine, and no one has to negotiate the limits. You don't need some kind of heroic friend rushing to the rescue, the magical healing embrace, and neither does he." Season 17, canon.
1. Winter's Tale

**Autor's Note:** **Hello! So I wasn't sure if this would ever be a real story, but I decided to go for it anyway, because it has been on my mind for months now. I couldn't really pick a genre category as I am not entirely sure where it's going yet. So a few words: it's not romance, it's not drama although it can get a bit angsty, it's not super violent although it may have a few mentions of upsetting content. Mainly, it's about two people getting their lives together, about changes, about getting older. Lots of Olivia, some Noah, some Brian, some squad moments and puppies. Wow, I'm really not selling this, am I? Anyway, see for yourself. As always, reviews make me so happy and reward the work that goes into this sort of thing.**

 **Disclaimer:** **I own nothing, and I am only writing this story for fun and taking liberties with the characters, not deriving profit from it.**

* * *

 **Bookends**

 _The blood fills your mouth quickly. It seeps through your teeth and runs down towards the back of your palate. Your throat closes up, trying to keep you from swallowing it, the metal taste producing the strong urge to retch, to get it all out. If you do that, you'll lose more. You can't breathe, an iron cage around your lungs because it hurts, it hurts so much and oh God, this is it and you'll bleed out in this street, you'll die right here and now. It's all back, the hands pressing against your chest, the shouting and the blurry face above you that is her, but it isn't, it's a man and… "Cassidy! It's all right, breathe, it's just your ribs, let me get the vest off- hey, hey, calm down, man, Cassidy, sh- look at me…shit, did you bite your tongue?"_

 **~Winter's Tale~**

It's hard to fathom how one dog can be so disciplined at work, then get up to the worst ideas at home. Obviously, Benji is trained to be perfectly obedient, and you are an unbeatable duo. If you tell him to stop, he will desist without delay. It's the stuff you don't tell him that's the problem, like when you run down to the store by yourself and come back to find him napping on that pile of clean laundry you neglected to put away. Or when you walk through the door like now and can just see from the way he cocks his head and looks at you with those big brown eyes of his that he knows he screwed up royally.

You put your hands on your hips, doing your best to look stern and intimidating. "All right, what happened?"

But of course, if there is a God, he did not grant Benji the gift of speech. All you get is a little whimper that tugs at your heartstrings as he turns around and trots away, hanging his head. It doesn't take much of a detective, however, to guess what the smell of cold tomato sauce means. So you brace yourself as you round the counter, where you find your 1980s kitchen tiles splattered in red, an overturned pot next to what looks like a gigantic puddle that got licked and spread all over the floor. It's the licking that may have saved you a lot of surface cleaning, but as you look up, you notice the stains on your old wooden cupboard doors, even some drops all the way up on the ceiling. Well, there's your afternoon all planned out.

"Seriously, buddy, _again_?"

Of course, it's your own fault for leaving the left-overs out on the stove, and yes, you are, strictly speaking, not supposed to leave your canine partner at home by himself in a tiny apartment for extended periods of time. You're pretty sure if he had hands, he would actually help you clean up. That doesn't make this any less irritating. It makes you long for a time when you didn't have live-in animal partners, but humans who wouldn't chew on your things or wake you up at 5am because they spontaneously needed exercise.

You walk over to the little closet and grab your mop and a bucket. "Thanks a lot, partner."

And as you survey this apartment you've made your home, an hour's commute away from work, as you can't shake the tension in your shoulders, you know what you need to do. Because all the cleaning in the world won't let you forget the news. Suddenly, you know.

* * *

"Who knew playgrounds were so popular in winter?"she comments, one hand on the baby carriage as she surveys the crowds of children on the swings and slides.

You get what she's saying, you really do. This is a new world to her, one that probably still feels a bit strange. The picture of domesticity is intimidating, as overprepared mothers -and why is it only mothers?- feed their well-dressed kids slices of organic apples or offer them drinks of filtered water from brightly coloured, PET-free, spillage-proof bottles. There is inevitable competition here, not only in a material sense, but in terms of who is the "better parent". Which toddler can climb the jungle gym by him- or herself? Which five-year-old cries and runs to mommy for help when (s)he scrapes a knee? Which child says "hello" in a polite manner and shares its toys? You remember your sense of apprehension the first time you came here. Hell, you still feel it sometimes, when Noah's hair looks like you haven't even bothered to comb it, he hits another kid with a plastic shovel or a thirty-year-old upper class housewife asks about your husband's occupation.

So you smile reassuringly, watching your son run off towards the slides. "You'll be glad they are. Any idea what happens if I keep this one cooped up inside all day?"

"I can only imagine" she replies, rocking the baby carriage.

"It's Armageddon."

"Yeah." There is a brief pause in which she seems to steel herself and gather up the courage to do the inevitable. "So…how are you doing?"

You knew she would ask. Of course she would, although you appreciate the fact that this is Amanda and when she asks you a personal question, it almost feels like she doesn't want to know the answer. "I'm okay" you say curtly, giving her the polite response. You're alive. Again. You have no reason not to be okay.

She gives you the faintest of nods, and although you can all but see the wheels inside her head turning, she doesn't fight you on it. "It sounded awful from what Fin told me."

"It was." What business does Fin have to be giving her all the details, texting crime scene pics, asking her opinion on forensics? You really need to talk to him about this again. When you can.

"But you made it out."

"Yeah." You handled it right. You did the best you could. You survived. You know all that. But it doesn't change what happened to that girl. "It was a close call." _Your hands behind your back, being exposed, unable to protect yourself. The way it cuts into your skin._

"That's gotta be hard to deal with." _The sounds she makes, all the way through._ Her gaze is piercing you now, and the pity in it is like a sticky substance you can't wash off your skin. She isn't meant to pity you. You are her boss. You don't know why it's so hard to care, such a challenge to really feel it. You just don't. You know how you should feel about this encounter, but it's all like a bad dream, a recurrence of something that never fully went away either way. You are too used to it.

 _His breath on your cheek, the barrel of the gun so close it's all you can see although you try not to look, because there is just no way you are getting out of here alive again. Not this time. There isn't even any thought of "why, why me", any concept of it that could cross your mind. It's pure survival, instinct as you try not to think of your little boy's face at home or you'll cry and crying might make him angry and angry men pull the trigger. It happens all the time, angry men pulling triggers on women, and you let yourself get into this, you weak idiot, but here's the gun beside you and you've got to figure out what to do, you can't freeze because he's angry, so angry, and now it's all blurring and the door is a bed is a table and metal and breaths and…_

Shrill laughter penetrates your senses from somewhere as a child's ball rolls in front of you, saving you. "You can't afford to fall apart when you have a kid." The words come out robotic. They are your hourly mantra since _it_ happened. Things are different this time. You are different.

You force yourself to notice your surroundings, grounding yourself, unclenching your stiff fingers. A flock of birds is flying by overhead, black against the grey sky. The bench feels cold against your thighs. Instinctively, your eyes find your son amidst the colourful crowd of jackets as he watches the slide that has been occupied by older children, bigger children. He looks so small, so lost in this world, and you can't read his face as he pulls off his beanie, throwing it onto the ground.

"Noah" you call out, "keep your hat on, please."

He is not far from you –you have a hard time letting him stray these days- and he clearly hears you as he turns around and stares, making no move, his lips pursed.

"Sweetie, put your hat back on. Now."

By now, you're sure he's calling you into a standoff, one you're not sure you are ready for as your legs still feel shaky. It's pathetic, you being unable to deal with a two-year-old, _your_ son.

Amanda makes a move to get up. "I'll-"

"No, I'll do it, thanks." You walk over to Noah, who, mercifully, doesn't run away for you to chase after him. You want things to go well in front of Amanda, to show her that you are in control of the situation. He is forcing you back into life.

"Here, let's put this back on." You pick up the beanie from where he tossed it into the sand and shake it out.

"No." He gives you his best unimpressed look, daring you to contradict him. He rarely shouts; calm defiance is more his thing. You so don't have the energy for this today. It's going through the motions, trying to care.

You run one hand through his sweaty hair, which is sticking to his head. He'll get sick again if you're not careful, and your first impulse is to physically overpower him. But no. You're an authoritative parent. You explain your decisions. "Yes, it's really cold today. I want you to stay warm."

"No." He points at it. "It's dirty."

"Here, we'll brush it off." You don't know where this recent pickiness about clothes has come from, but he is a big stickler for cleanliness.

"Again."

"Here, you do it."

"No, Mommy do it."

"Fine, look, it's clean now, there. Now you can put it back on yourself, or I can do it."

To your amazement, he takes the beanie without another complaint and actually does a good job of covering his ears with it, before edging towards the smaller slide with the ramp, where he has a better chance of getting a turn.

Amanda is watching him as you return. "A victory."

"Wait till Jesse discovers free will. _So_ fun."

"Wait till your kid demands five bucks in exchange for obedience."

You glimpse into the baby carriage, and to your surprise, Amanda's quiet daughter is not asleep. She is looking up at a sky she can't see yet in wondrous admiration, her little hand sticking out from under the cover. "Hey, baby girl. Hey." You tug the blanket more snugly around the gap, briefly covering her cold fingers with your own hand. She is a little miracle, bright blue eyes, a button nose and pink lips, shaped into a yawn. Something inside you aches with longing as you look at her. You never got to have this time with Noah. This is one experience you won't share, time with him you'll never get back. You will never have this. How you'd love to have a girl… "She's perfect, Amanda."

"I know, but after this pregnancy, don't expect me to have another one anytime soon." Her words sting.

"How are you doing now? After…everything?"

"Physically? I'm doing better. I mean, it still hurts like a bitch when I lift anything, you know." You can see her stopping herself, a flush creeping into her pale cheeks, because of course, you _don't know_.

"That sounds tough, when you can't really rest because you have a baby to care for."

"Yeah, but Lydia's been great, coming over to help out and showing me how to make it easier for myself." Lydia, so you know, is the midwife who was supposed to help at Amanda's birth before things went south. "She insisted, just because of the complications…"

"There's no shame in accepting help, Amanda. You're doing this on your own, you're going to need support. For yourself and her."

She lowers her gaze at her gloved hands, her thumb rubbing at a stain in the leather. "Look, Liv, I'll manage, and I'm coming back soon for sure-"

"There's no rush, there's always a space for you on our team, you know that. You need to focus on you and Jesse right now." It's the answer you want to give her, and only half a lie. Everyone in your department, except for Carisi and Fin, are all over you to hire someone new. "New blood" is supposed to fix this set of tragedies and scandals that has befallen your squad, to make up for everything, to be the final test for your leadership style until it's decided you're not fit for this job after all. But that's not on her. You won't let this affect her.

"I won't let the job slack, I promise."

"I know you won't. You're a great detective."

"Thanks." She gives you an embarrassed sideways glance and a genuine smile.

"How are you managing otherwise? Has your mom been in touch at all?"

"Once. She called to guilt trip me, obviously, no surprises there. But she, uh, sent a card."

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "It is what it is."

A moment of understanding passes between you. Here you are, both of you alone in your own ways. You remember the sleepless nights when you first brought Noah home, the way you would sit up rocking him, begging him to sleep when all he would do was cry, cry, cry, unfamiliar with his surroundings, too used to abandonment and abuse. You had to keep the lights on in the apartment because shadows and memories were lurking everywhere, but you also couldn't, because this helpless baby you were suddenly responsible for hated them for some reason. Sacrifice. You would sit, trying to calm yourself down, trying to calm him down, sure that you would never understand what he was trying to tell you with his agonised cries, convinced that you were hurting him and you would never be his real mother, sobbing hysterically from lack of sleep, sure that you wouldn't last through the night. Nights spent at the hospital – alone. Nights spent at home – alone. Those first couple of months before going back to work nearly drove you insane.

Yet here's Amanda, relatively bright, relatively awake, with a baby who doesn't cry, sure she wants to go back to work as soon as possible. You don't know how she does it. She needs the money, you know that much. She also needs the job, like you needed it…still need it, possibly.

"If we can help in any way, you know we will."

"I know, thanks. Carisi's practically forcing me to let him babysit." She smiles, again. She is smiling so much more than she used to just now. "Which is nice, because then I can at least take a shower every once in a while." Her hand immediately goes to the baby carriage again as she peaks inside.

"That helps. And if you ever need to get out…"

"Yeah. Thanks. We should do this more often." You exchange a look, and you both know this won't be a day to day thing, that you won't be BFFs heading to the park together with your kids anytime soon. That would be too much. But you knew she needed to get out after all this time inside and the weeks on bed rest, you know she's grateful for any kind of adult contact. And you? Well, you need the clear sky above your head, the fresh air around you, more than anything. It's what keeps you sane while you're off duty. Mostly.

"Look, 'manda!" Noah runs up to you, holding something indistinguishable in his palm. "Look!" He holds it out to her, and the first thing you can see is her smile freeze a little, before you realise what the brown thing really is…

"That's…dried up cat poo, Noah" she explains patiently, searching for baby wipes in her huge diaper bag.

You grab one of the tissues you always have on hand and hold it out to him, cupped in your palm. "Here, put it in there."

"It's for 'manda!" he replies with a proud expression, like he has just discovered a precious jewel.

"Thanks, that's nice, but I think we better give that to Mommy, huh? It's a bit yucky."

"Yucky" he repeats with a grimace.

You throw it away as Amanda cleans his hands, trying not to care how happily he lets her do it, unlike you. He scrambles away from her quickly, though, to try and climb onto the wheel of the baby carriage to peek inside. "Whass baby doing?"

"I don't know- careful!" You lift him up a bit so he can take a better look. He is fascinated by Jesse so far, but more like one would be fascinated by a new toy than a person. After insisting she was "his baby" at first, he quickly got jealous when you held her, and demanded to be carried some of the way to the playground, which he is really getting too heavy for.

His little hand pats her face clumsily so he's almost hitting her until you stop him. "Gently, gently." She barely gives a small mewl as you take his hand and you both stroke her head more softly.

"Fuzzy" he remarks at her thin whiff of hair peeking out from underneath her beanie.

"Yeah, very soft."

You set him back down, and he begins to try and pull himself up by the handlebar. "Would you like to push her, Noah?" Amanda asks, unlocking the wheels and helping him move the large object around, keeping him from crashing into things as you sit and watch.

And just as you think "yes, this isn't so bad, life isn't so bad", just as you have a few seconds to yourself with no darkness lurking at the back of your mind, your phone rings. One glance at the display tells you all you need to know, because even though you have a different phone, you never did manage to delete his number from your cloud and imported it. Maybe you should have. The urge to answer is strong, just to hear his voice. But you don't. This phone call is for the wrong reasons. What do you say to someone after nearly two years? What do you say to him after _this_?

"Tucker?" Amanda asks casually over her shoulder, and you know she has been filled in thoroughly by the clueless gossip column that is your department.

"No. Nothing important."


	2. My Choice

**Author's Note:** **What can I say, other than that I love everyone who took the time to review? But you already knew that. So this is me doing a happy dance. Coming up: a relatively somber chapter featuring some police policing, no dog and no kids. But fear not, they shall return. You have my Dr. Nightwitch guarantee on that.**

* * *

 **~My Choice~**

You stand outside the squadroom for at least two full minutes before you make your way in, watching the bustle in front of you as unfamiliar faces hurry by, probably on their way to that far off printer that they still haven't moved. A couple of rookies in uniforms pass along the hallway behind you while crudely trying to pick a nickname for some guy who masturbates at the Laundromat. They fall silent when you throw them a glance over your shoulder, so you might as well make it a stern one, make them wonder if they're in trouble. This is familiar territory, and yet, it seems like it's your first visit here, like you're being called to the principal's office with no idea what to expect, when in fact, you are the one making a request. As you make your way through the rows of desks, there is not a single familiar face around, an empty space where Rollins normally sits, new stuff on Amaro's desk. You had almost hoped you would run into Fin here, just to see a friendly face, catch up, get some scoop that he would never give you out of discretion. But he isn't here, either. So you stand around for a moment like some sort of mail order that no one has signed for, until a youngish, eager-looking detective asks if he can help you.

"No, thanks."

"You sure?"

"I just-"

"Carisi, where's the final report on- oh…" She stops right beside you, glancing up from the ipad in her hand. Her eyes widen, but she catches herself quickly, not giving away much more than a moment's surprise. "Hi."

"Hi."

"What are you doing here?"

"You know him?" the oblivious kid asks curiously.

"Lieutenant" you say, increasing the awkwardness by about a million, "I was wondering if you had a moment. It's about a case."

"Now?" She clearly has better things to be doing. You can tell that she is distracted, in full boss mode, trying to keep an eye on a hundred things at once.

Another guy in a suit comes up, puffing out his chest. You look him up and down, and you are pretty sure that he has never not worn a suit for a day in his life. "You want me to take this" he offers. _Hell no._ For a strange moment, you miss Amaro, or Cragen, or any point in time when Liv was just Liv and you could have a normal conversation with her without prying eyes. Or at least Amaro's prying eyes.

"Um, no" she barely meets your eyes for a second, "I got it."

You trail after her into her office, her shutting the door behind you, and somehow, a bit of the tension seems to fall off both your shoulders as you sit down in your respective chairs. This is a work meeting, and you are in your roles. She takes off her glasses and leans forward, ready to listen. You are relieved to see that she looks good – different for sure, but good, not hurt, not absent or tired. But then, that's Liv. She always makes an effort at work. Some things never change. Except her hair, maybe.

"You said this was about a case?"

Okay, then. No "how are you", "what's new", you dive straight in. It's probably better this way. "Yeah, so, I guess I have to explain, I work in Narcotics now with this specialised on call K-9 unit-"

"K-9? As in, dogs?"

"Yep."

Now, she is flat out staring at you, then taking obvious note of the empty space beside you as if looking for proof. She clearly hasn't heard of decoys before. You might as well have told her that you joined the secret service since you last talked over a year ago. "Since when?"

"A few months."

"I thought they only took officers and their waitlist was years long."

"Yeah, well. I pulled some strings." You tug at your sleeve, straightening it out. It feels as if she is making you, trying to figure out if this is some sort of undercover disguise. You don't know what else to tell her. You don't have to defend your professional choices to her.

"Well, that's…good for you." Under different circumstances, it would be amusing to watch Olivia Benson strapped for words. If it weren't all so fresh. "And you're partnered with a dog?"

"Yeah, a German shepherd." You can't help smiling when you divulge this information and for a split second, she seems to soften as well.

But she stops herself, folding her hands, unfolding them. She is restless. "And you caught a case that has something to do with SVU?"

"Yeah, it does- well, sort of, I'm not sure, it's complicated because maybe it's technically international so it depends on a lot of factors, and officially, we're going after the drugs not that but I can't just ignore it, can I, and so I don't know what exactly SVU can do but I just thought…"

"Brian." She holds up her hand to stop you. "I can't make sense of that. Why don't you start at the beginning?"

"Right. So I was called in on this drug bust, not just to search and seize but supervising as well, and it was a good arrest, but tense. Like, really tense, so it was important everything was by the book. The guys had been moving product and they had international ties as well, so this was, you know, a pretty big deal."

She tips her chin down in the smallest of nods to signal understanding.

"So once we located the product, they took their sweet time documenting everything while Big H –the head of the whole thing- was carted off. And there was this…girl there, who seemed…off. She wasn't high, but she just seemed really detached and like she was in trouble." The memory of the expression on her face as she was watching the arrest is burned into the coils of your brain. You've seen that look before. You _know_ that look. "We were talking, and she told me then, that first night at the house, that he made her work for him, pimping her out, the usual."

"How old is she?"

"In her twenties, I guess, not a minor anyway. But he took all her papers, and she's from Belarus. He brought her in."

"Are there more girls?"

"Yeah, we got some records, but they've split for the most part. But you don't just bring in one girl, there's gotta be more of a business behind this."

She nods again. "Probably."

"Anyway, she's supposed to testify against Big H, but she's obviously terrified. And you know the budget situation…we got a detail on her for now, but how long's that gonna last? She'll be dead before the trial starts." It's the knowledge of this, the _certainty_ of your knowledge from first-hand experience, which gets to you the most. It's in your hands now, and yet, your hands are tied. You once swore to yourself you would never get into this kind of situation again.

"So what can I do for you?"

"If this is what happened to her, if she was trafficked, she's a victim and she needs help."

"I get it, my question is, why are you coming to me with this?"

It's a legitimate question, but not one you were expecting. She used to always jump in on everything, pushing it forward, advocating for the victim. It's new for you to see her in this position, deciding over who is a "good" victim with a "good" perpetrator to pursue. There is something disillusioned about her approach here – and you always thought you were the disillusioned one. Things change. "They don't want to push the sex trafficking case, because they think it's not big enough, just a handful of girls, he was just starting out. They wanna get him on the drugs. But if she's a victim, she can get a T visa, right, they have to cash in for protection. Narco can't just pressure her because she has a protected status."

"Maybe, but you know we have no jurisdiction over the ICE. They can do all this, but sex trafficking is really their territory. The Human Trafficking Unit can help her, work out a deal for her."

"I know. She won't talk there, not a chance, she's too scared."

"She talked to you."

"Yeah, but…it just kind of spilled out of her." You don't know what it is, but somehow, complete strangers tend to tell you random things you often don't want to hear. "Once. I've tried to convince her, but I think she just wants nothing to do with any of it. She doesn't even see herself as a victim. She's just afraid of being deported."

"So they're pressuring her to testify by promising a visa in exchange?" she asks, her words heavy with weariness.

"Yeah." You have never been less proud of your unit. It's the way of the world, you know that, Lord knows you do. You don't even know why this gets to you so much. All you know is that you can't not act, not again. It's not right for this guy to get out of prison, or even go to prison for the wrong thing.

"So she'll either be killed, or she'll skip town if she's smart."

"Right" she sighs, tugging a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

"Look, will you just talk to her? You can convince her-"

"Brian-"

"I know you can. You're a woman and- I mean it's not just that you're a woman, you know how to do these things…she'll talk to you. Trust me, I wouldn't ask if I'd been able to come up with any other solution."

She gives you a long, hard look, one that is difficult to read as her face remains blank. "Can you get her to come in?"

"Yes." Maybe. You hope.

"Okay. Then I'll talk to her."

"Thank you-"

"I'm not making any promises. I'll try."

* * *

It always comes down to hookers with him. You don't really want to know why. For some unknown reason, their fate resonates with him, and his ease and casual, non-threatening charm helps him connect. It's a rather unusual, specific gift, and one that you hadn't expected to come into contact with again in this lifetime. But it's so Brian to just walk into your life again one day with zero preparation. You couldn't say no. For the girl's sake, of course.

Even so, Malena is not what you expected. For one thing, she doesn't dress like a working girl – or at least any working girl you've ever encountered, and you've seen your fair share from high end escorts to addicts living in the street. She looks more like your average college student with those fake damaged jeans that are suddenly in season again, Ugg boots and a plain, black shirt on top. Her hair and make-up is subtle, and she isn't wearing nail polish, as you can't help noticing while she clutches the table when she has finally stopped pacing and sat down.

"I'm sure you're under a lot of pressure right now" you comment on her inability to stay still.

She huffs through her teeth. "I just want a smoke."

"I can show you a spot on the fire escape."

"You smoke?"

"No, I don't. But I know my way around here."

She is feeling you out, trying to get a sense of who you are. You let her. Her face won't betray what she is thinking. She is neither attractive nor unattractive with her eyes set rather widely, her pronounced cheekbones, the dirty blonde hair falling loosely down to her shoulders. She must be young, early to mid twenties maybe, but then again, that could be the fashion. "No one smokes in this country."

"How long have you been here?"

"Five months."

"Really? How come your English is so good?" She barely has an accent.

"My father was a teacher – not for English, but he wanted me to learn. But I really just watched a lot of American TV, CSI."

"Impressive." You stir the coffee you got for yourself and her to give this the air of a casual conversation. "So Detective Cassidy told me that you might want to talk to me about Big H."

"He seems like a nice guy, Detective Cassidy. Cute dog." She is deflecting, delaying this conversation for as long as she can.

"He seemed worried about you."

Her lips stretch into a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Because I'm supposed to stay alive so I can put Big H behind bars. I told him, that's not going to happen."

"I'm not interested in the drugs. You're at SVU here, we investigate sex offences."

"You can't talk to me without a lawyer, I know my rights."

 _Thank you, CSI._ "I'm not talking to you as a suspect, Malena. I'm not interrogating you. We are only talking because you told Detective Cassidy that Big H…made you do things for him. That he brought you into this country."

"You want me to testify against him, no?" Her guard is up as she eyes you suspiciously.

"Right now, I simply want to talk to you about your options."

"My options?" she laughs drily. "I have _options_?"

"Look, I know Big H is a dangerous man. That's why we need to make sure you're protected from him." _Don't make promises you can't keep, don't make promises you can't keep._

"And how would you do that?"

"I can't do it, personally" you opt for the truth, "but if what you told Detective Cassidy is true, I can put in a good word for you with the people who can. There are places that support crime victims, specific protections in place so he can't find you, visas."

"In exchange for what?"

"If he is prosecuted for what he did to you…and maybe others."

Suddenly, some of her certainty and armour seems wiped away. She is playing with the frayed seams of the holes in her jeans as she chews on her words, visibly unsure how to even find the words for this.

You give her time, but it's pretty clear you have to be the one to structure the conversation here if you have any hope of her talking. "Malena, you know I can't promise to keep you safe. That would be a lie. But I will walk you through the steps if we pursue this." You have to make her feel that it's her choice, and yet somehow, you can't expect her to be able to make it.

She opens her mouth, pausing before speaking. "Detective Cassidy, he…he told me I could trust you. And that you've helped, uh, people like me in the past. He said he's never seen you give up and he'd trust you with his life so…"

This strikes something inside you, something you can't quite afford to examine right now.

She sits up a bit more, perched on the edge of her seat. "Normally, cops just want to bust us. When we're working."

"Working where?"

"With the johns. We don't go out. We don't…um…solicit. We come in as guests at the parties. Big H arranges it all."

"How?"

"I don't know, phone calls with his contacts. He doesn't trust the internet. His clients are pretty steady. I don't know if he keeps a list."

"So he brings you to these parties…"

"Yeah. But sometimes, he brings them over to the house, too. It just depends. We're not his prisoners. He pays us, a little."

"When you say you're not his prisoners, do you mean you are free to leave?"

"Ha, no. And where would I go? He has my passport, my papers, everything. I don't know anyone here, besides the girls."

You tick a mental box. She seems to be free to leave, free enough at least to come here and talk to you, but a major point is him keeping hold of her papers. It's evidence of coercion, one indicator that you are dealing with trafficking and not merely smuggling. This will help her, you hope. "What would happen if you walked away?"

She is chewing on the inside of her cheek, staring at the table in front of her. "I don't know…"

"What happens if you say no to him? Or to a john?"

"You don't say no to him" she replies in a hollow voice.

"Why not?"

"He'll do what it takes. Take their money, beat them." She has switched from first, to second, to third person. "It doesn't matter. You're his. It's a job."

"A job you accepted of your own will?"

"Yes. I mean…no. Yes. Back home, he said I would work in a hotel, with other girls."

"So he got you here under false pretences."

"I knew it wasn't all so…right. I paid a lot of money. Yan took care of everything from Vitebsk, but there wasn't a real office. He put me on a bus to Riga, because I guess it's easier to enter from an E.U. country."

"Yan?"

"His partner back home."

"And what did he tell you would happen next?" You are taking no notes, focusing simply on her credibility, her certainty in telling her story, the gaps in the information. These things will matter when she has to tell it over and over again.

"I didn't know exactly what would happen, but I'm not stupid. I knew there aren't so many jobs, even in America."

"But he still deceived you to come here."

She raises her chin, facing you squarely now. "He helped me come here, either way. I wanted to come. Me. It was my choice."

You watch her in frustration, this young woman, and you can't help sympathising. She is clinging to her last thread of agency, and you understand it, you understand it so well. But it's precisely what will harm her in the long run, making her a "bad victim" in court because she won't break down in tears, won't dwell on her pain. She wants a life of her own with all this in the past. But to get this, she will have to dwell on the past and play along in this potentially just or unjust justice system. It's the dance you do, day after day.

* * *

"So…?" you ask as you enter the observation room which, for some reason, is occupied by your two most senior officers in rank and seniority, as if they had nothing better to do, no actual cases to work on. You really only called Fin in for a second opinion, but at some point, Dodds must have invited himself to partake. You suspect it's his paranoia of being outsmarted by your most trusted detective.

"Could go either way" Fin observes curtly, "but ICE's gonna be all over us if this gets out."

Dodds leans against the frame of the one-way mirror. "I think we should look at this objectively. If she is telling us this in hopes of a visa and protection, can we trust her statement?"

"She was reluctant" you point out, "unsure if she would even cooperate with any investigation into that pimp."

"That could be an act. I don't know, she just didn't seem like a p-…like a sex worker to me."

Fin does a half eyeroll behind his back, and you are tempted to join in. As much as you have tried to be a fair boss to your sergeant, to give him a chance despite his paternal privilege, the mixture between doe-eyed naivety and know-it-all actionism is more exhausting than if you simply did both the Lieutenant's and the Sergeant's jobs yourselves. The best thing you can say for Dodds is that he is good at paperwork and has legible handwriting.

"How so?"

"The way she expresses herself, her appearance…for a trafficked girl, she seemed to be in good shape."

"She's a hooker, Sarge" Fin says gruffly, "they know how to beat 'em so it leaves no marks. He's not gonna reduce her value."

Dodds is clearly not impressed with this answer. "Her story seems very neat. Why would this dealer get someone from Belarus and risk being exposed if he could just find young girls in the city?"

You nod. "That's a big question. But international sex trafficking is not all that unusual."

"Lieutenant, if you don't mind me asking, why are we even interviewing her? This should be a case for-"

"-for the Human Trafficking Unit, I know. I'll call them. I just wanted to get a picture of the situation."

"Okay." Clearly, it is not okay. The questions appear about to spill out of him, held back only by the tip of his tongue, but he decides against it, mumbles something about checking in with Carisi, and leaves.

And then, it is just you, leaning against the wall yourself, trying to collect your thoughts and make sense of this whole thing. Or that's what you would do if Fin weren't hanging around, eyeing you suspiciously. "Cassidy brought this to you?"

"Yes" you confirm, knowing that he won't ask intrusive follow-up questions, but also knowing that he will share this information with Amanda in no time.

"Hm."

"What?"

He crosses his arms, tucking his hands under his armpits. "Look, I'm not all up in your personal business-"

"It's not-"

"-but Cassidy's got a talent for trouble. He always drags something in with him."

You can't deny it. It's a pretty spot-on assessment of all the times you have ever had professional interactions with him in this millennium, but while _you_ are allowed to think that, Fin isn't. "He was unlucky, he had a target on his back, but that was before…most of the time, he couldn't help it."

"Most of the time…" Fin concurs in a tone that suggests he is reliving all the bad, consequences-be-damned decisions Brian ever made.

"He doesn't hide information, and he knows the limits of what we can do."

"I'm not saying he'd _intentionally_ bring it here to drag us through the mud, I got nothing against the man. You can watch your own back, all I'm saying is…K-9 or not, Cassidy doesn't come without IAB at his back." On this somber prediction, much like an oracle, he shuts down again and leaves you to consider his words.

You do. Because somehow, in all this, you already feel like things are spiraling out of control again, refusing to stand still for a single second to give you room to breathe and deliberate like a rational, unbiased human being. You agreed to one thing – _you_ made that choice- and suddenly, it has taken on a dynamic of its own and you can't turn back. This feels awfully familiar. In this garden of forking paths, each lane opens up twice as many other options. You can never make your way back, just as you can't reverse time itself.


	3. Each Other's Silences

**Author's Note:** **Another chapter, and I finally have a direction in mind for this. So I'll keep this note short and just say what I always say: Looking at the stats, I at least know some people are clicking on this story, which makes me happy. Don't be shy, drop me a note and say hi, either here or on Twitter ( Nightwitch87), I promise I don't bite. Most days. Finally, this chapter will carry a dedication and big thanks to** _ **lucythespencer**_ **, because she is the one who indulged these K-9 alternative future fantasies.  
**

* * *

 **~Each Other's Silences~**

You knew you would get yelled at for this. Two years away from retirement, Keenan doesn't break out his _giving-a-damn_ side all too often, but when he does, you can be sure to see the man you wouldn't have wanted sitting across from you in an interrogation room once upon a time. "The good old times" he likes to talk about, before you had to "tiptoe around suspects", are long gone, but well alive in his imagination. He is letting you stand, sure to emphasise the divide between you two as he smoothes down a striped tie that you'll bet was a present from his squad over his beer belly. You were hoping your canine partner's presence would mellow him, but no such luck.

"I was only trying to-"

"You were endangering a two-year investigation!" His moustache vibrates like a jerky little caterpillar that you can't stop staring at.

"But the trafficking-"

"You do realise that they'll get a much longer sentence based on the volume of the product they moved than they'll ever get on sex trafficking, right? Don't look at me like that, I don't make the laws."

"Not if you have no witnesses. If we can't protect them, Captain, they won't testify, and chances are they'll be taken out either way."

"So you run to SVU, without even running it past me? Damn it, Cassidy, you're not even permanently assigned here, and you go and pull stuff like this on me? What is wrong with you?"

You almost congratulate him on the excellent question. "Don't know, sir, though I've often wondered myself."

"You got some nerve getting snarky with me now."

"No, I…Captain, I just needed to do what seemed necessary to keep the victims safe and keep our case going."

He stares at you, aghast, before grumbling "out of my office, now", and it's then that you know you've won him over. Deep down, the man has a weird soft spot for you, a strange, sentimental longing for breaking the rules. Or so you hope. Because otherwise, you are out of a job once again, let alone on track for that Sergeant's route to take on a K-9 officers' unit once you have officially finished your probation as a general officer. It all seemed too good to be true, anyway. Let's face it: You are damaged goods. The NYPD will never give you another shot.

* * *

"So she let me notify Human Trafficking, but I can't guarantee she actually talked to them because they told me to get lost. That didn't leave a great first impression with her."

"No, they're idiots" he grumbles into the phone. "But I hope Malena's smart enough to know what's best for her."

"That's the question."

"What was your impression?"

"I think she's scared." You hesitate to make a judgement call on what her chances are. You don't mess with fate anymore. "I believed her, but she's not…she thinks it was her choice."

"She talked to you, though? That's a start."

"She did, but she's gonna have to talk to ICE. I can't do that for her, Brian." You try not to let him hear just how done you are with everything, including this phone call, that all you want to do is sit on this sofa and have a drink, and another, and another, until it's all washed down. Which is, technically, what you're already doing. The last thing you need today is another case on top of your messy day in court, another victim to worry about.

"I know, I know" he replies quickly, "thanks for…everything."

"No problem." You can hear sudden barking in the background, and a "shut up" muttered away from the receiver. Is that even an official command? "Is that your partner?"

"Yep. He's noisy."

"Jealous?"

"Eh, a little. He doesn't share. But we have an agreement."

"You're made for each other."

"And how's your kid?" You can hear the warmth in his voice at the other end, the tempting familiarity of it.

"Did you just compare your dog to my child?"

"Well, Benji's a bit furrier but…"

"And probably better behaved."

"That's debatable. Anyway…Noah?"

"He's good, he's sleeping like a baby."

"Good. And you?" he asks in the fake casual voice that people do when they really want to drop a pointed question.

"Me? I'm fine."

"No one would blame you if you weren't after everything you've been through. Even without the…you know, history."

You are so not getting into this tonight. "I took the mandatory time off and-"

"Have you talked to anyone-"

"Yes, I'm seeing my shrink." You say it all at once, hoping that it will clear everything up, stop the questions, tick the checkmarks of this mandatory "are you okay?" conversation that he feels obliged to do.

He gets the hint. "You want me to come over?" There is something wicked in his voice, but he immediately switches tones to awkwardly assure you that "I don't mean it like that, I mean I- it's not because- we could just…watch a movie or something."

What is that, kid code for making out 101? You can't help smiling to yourself, it's as if he doesn't realise that he is so easy to read. Or maybe he does. "Well, that does sound like more fun. Raincheck?"

"Sure. Anytime, really-"

"Okay."

"I, uh, I look forward to it."

"Okay. Okay. Me too."

"Right. Talk to you later."

"Bye."

You hang up, thinking about how you should go to bed, take a shot at this sleeping thing like Noah. For about two seconds, it's actually a serious consideration as you watch your son on screen, trying to hang on to the warm, cozy feeling this phone call left you with. However, it seems to drain out through an open window right away. "Going to bed" is, of course, a euphemism. You have long since abandoned your bedroom to this child, who is growing, who needs privacy and a home and just a basic bit of _normality_ , while you curl up on the couch, sleeping. Or not sleeping. Sleep happens coincidentally these days, not when you aim for it. You doze off over some papers or TV with the lights on, jerking awake minutes or hours later. It's nothing that you don't know, nothing that you can't handle, but it scares you nonetheless, because you can't afford to be like this now. You are supposed to have it together and to an extent, you do. You function. But you know all about functional alcoholism, you've been on the other side of it, and you don't want to be that kind of mom. The kind who lives in terror of the next shadow, constantly imagining that any adult in her son's life might be a sex offender. The kind who gets irrationally angry, who yells and hits, then cries and apologises profusely later. The kind who needs her child to take care of her, cleaning up her messes. The kind who tries her best, going through the motions, but feels dead inside. No, you could never do that to Noah. Never. But you are not so certain as you once were, as it feels like the security you have worked so hard to build for yourself is crumbling around you, a sand castle in the wind.

" _I'm sorry about your injuries, Ms Parker, but you can't even remember if those injuries were sustained during rough, consensual sex, can you?"_

You take another gulp of wine, and another, and another, until you reach that point where it's not numbing anymore but dangerous, that moment where everything blurs into one event. And you don't know if it's the present bothering you or the past, the actual events or the stories that are told about them. The lies, the reconstructions, the potential truths contained, the reason why it's always you and you will never be free. It's all just messes of sand swirling around you.

" _So we drank together, we took drugs together, we played with each other sexually."_ His voice has no business being in your head anymore. He is rotting in the ground six feet under. This thought is supposed to console you, but it has long since stopped doing its job. _Let him go._

" _Did you not tell me you liked it rough?"_

 _I didn't. It was a tactic. It's never the victim's fault. It's never the victim's fault._

" _The truth is embarrassing. That you, an experienced but lonely SVU detective, consumed by her work, became sexually obsessed with a man you believed to be a rapist."_

* * *

"Detective Cassidy?" the strange voice speaks uncertainly.

"Who's asking?"

"Hi. I just…never mind."

"Malena? You all right?" You can sense that she is about to hang up, changing her mind about this call already.

"Yeah, I…" She falls silent, breathing heavily into the phone.

"Are you in trouble?"

"No."

"You talked to Lieutenant Benson, right?" Simple yes or no questions. Keeping her talking is the aim here.

"Yeah, but she…I…" She sounds absolutely terrified, or incapacitated, you're not sure what.

"Okay, let's meet. I'll come see you."

"I can't."

"Just tell me where you are, I'll get you out. It'll be okay."

"No, I…just called to say I'm sorry."

Your heart sinks. "Why?"

"Because I can't do this."

* * *

"She needs our help."

There it is again, this collective, imaginary "we" he has created, thinking of you and him as a team on this case that is really neither of your business. "She doesn't seem to want it. We don't even know if she'll turn up at the bar."

"Trust me, it's good intel I got from the girls, and she'll need the cash to skip town. She'll show up."

"Have you tried locating her phone? Have you even told Human Trafficking?"

"They're just gonna drop her case."

"We cannot do this behind their backs." You feel as if you are from different planets, speaking entirely different languages. You never used to notice his complete disregard for hierarchies and procedure so much. Either that, or you never minded. Now, you have infinitely more to lose. It's your job to be the responsible one.

"We're not doing anything, just having a chat with her. Keeping her safe."

"I don't really do night time surveillance anymore."

"I'm not asking you to patrol the streets, just…talk to her when I find her? Please?"

You think of Malena, of Johnny D, of all the things you would rather not get involved in when you have a child at home to consider. But also of Ellie, who you couldn't help. Or didn't. "You going out there by yourself?"

"No, I'm taking Benji."

"You know what I mean."

"I'll track her down, no worries." He is determined, and no amount of talking will make him shake this idea. You can tell even without seeing him.

"All right" you sigh. "An hour, two hours max, I can do no more."

* * *

You can't bear the waiting game. It's a chore you are too used to from years of undercover work, and you don't have the patience for it anymore. You sought out K-9 precisely because it didn't promise to entail any of this (the puppies may have been a bit of a factor, too). You can't sit around on your ass doing nothing. Not because you care so much about her, this person you hardly know, but because if Malena dies, her blood will be on your hands. Again. And you will live with the permanent knowledge of your failings.

You close the car door behind you, keeping as much of the cold out as possible, and hand Liv the paper cup. "Herbal tea. I know you don't drink coffee this late. This one's on me."

"Damn right it is." She takes it and cups her hands around the cardboard, warming them as the left-over heating from an ignition that has been turned off for ten minutes can't.

"I'm sorry I dragged you into this."

"I can handle sitting in a car with you, Brian, as long as you shut up and let me take the lead."

"Yes, Lieutenant." You smile to yourself. She is still the same person, and she won't have you tiptoeing around her. As she sits behind the steering wheel, a dark beanie pulled down over her ears, her jacket zipped up so it covers her chin, she is a commanding presence. It reminds you of old times, of the two of you working together without many words needed between you. Has it really been this long?

"What about Benji there, what does he contribute?" She glances into the back mirror at the German shepherd stretched out on the backseat, who she has, so far, ignored. Then again, she was never the person running up to strangers' dogs to play with them. That was…well, you.

"He'll back us up if we get into trouble. He also has excellent hot dog stand detection skills."

"Can I pet him? Or is that a no-go on the job?"

"Normally, yeah, but he's not doing anything right now, so go ahead."

"Hey, Benji." She reaches out her hand, lets him sniff it, then touches the side of his neck, scratching him under his muzzle when he tilts his head up, half closing his eyes. "You like that, huh?"

"He likes you. Could be the free massage though."

"He's easy to win over."

"Best partner ever. Don't tell Munch."

"You heard from him recently?"

"Not in a while. He sent me a postcard from Canada once."

"What's he doing up there, escaping detection?"

"You really wanna know?" you ask, taking her cup from her so she won't spill tea all over herself while twisting and turning for a better reach of Benji.

"Probably not."

"Hey, how's that asshat partner of yours who ditched you doing?"

"The first or the second one?"

Well. This is awkward. "Uh…what?"

She gives you some deadpan sideeye. "Gotcha."

"Ooh…"

"Nick's good. He's serving and protecting the Californian parks."

"Fighting off the deadly rhododendron?"

"Mostly getting a tan, growing some kind of half-ass beard and sending constant selfies of it."

"Oh, God…" Why does he have to be such a little shit 80% of the time? You can just picture him lounging on his sun bed with a smoothie in his hand embracing the L.A. lifestyle.

"I know, right?" She sighs, putting her head in her hand and gazing out the window as her elbow rests against it. "I miss him."

"Yeah. But it sounds like he's doing better. That's something, right?"

"Since when do you care?"

"Hey, I don't mind the man so long as he's not waxing his chest hair _in my bathroom_!"

She cringes. "Thanks for the reminder."

"I think I'm scarred for life by that image."

"You had no business walking in there in the first place. That'll teach you to knock."

You exchange an easy laugh, and the conversation continues like this – ebbing and flowing, light fluff and subjects of common interest. She tells you about Amanda's baby and her new (baby) sergeant, you recount your best dog training fails, you both marvel at the fact that Tucker hid away his hostage negotiation skills for over a decade. (Unfortunately, her apparent near death experience means that you have to keep any Tucker bashing that has built up inside you to a minimum as a common courtesy.) The road in front of you remains semi-empty, unvisited by your target as you try to keep your attention on the shady bar she supposedly frequents. And as time goes on, your impatience fades. Maybe stake-outs aren't so bad after all. As the evening progresses, conversation turns more personal when she shows you pictures of Noah on her phone and you both marvel at the passage of time itself, and you narrate your mom's attempts at navigating the iphone you got her for Christmas so she could "get on the internet and use the Google maps". Eventually, you are all talked out and you end up watching the road in comfortable familiarity. And perhaps this is the most refreshing thing of all – the fact that you don't need to fill every second with empty words. You are past that point.

She is checking her phone again, typing furiously and pressing "send" while not quite wanting to admit that her attention is distracted.

"Date?" you ask casually.

"Babysitter" she replies. "My hero, really."

"If you need to take off, it's fine. I got this."

She actually considers this briefly, throwing a glance at the door with the flashing lights and the unoriginal name "The Bar" above it. "In a little while. He's asleep now, anyway."

You are mentally repeating Malena's strange phone call from earlier, replaying the words in your mind. Did you miss anything important? No, she wasn't leaving a trail of breadcrumbs for you to follow. Staying here is your best shot for now.

"Sorry I never called you back" Liv randomly says into the silence, pulling you out of your thoughts. "When you called. It just seemed…complicated." Her regret seems genuine.

"Didn't have to be" you shrug. "Just checking in. But I get it."

"It was a bit of a weird time" she explains, as if you are discussing a historical period from long ago, and not something that just happened last month.

"Yeah, I bet." You remain very still on purpose, as if any sudden movement might spook her out of this casual honesty. You don't tell her how worried you were when she didn't return your phone call. How resentful, really, when all you wanted was a sign of life. You don't say these things. "How are you doing now?"

"Fine, I told you so."

You study her calm expression and the way it seems a million miles away. "You don't have to say that."

"Well, it's mostly true, so…"

"Really?"

"See, _this_ is what I didn't want to do."

"I'm not asking what happened, Liv, just wondering how you're coping with-"

"No, you're assuming, based on…never mind, I don't want to talk about it. I'm all right. I'll be all right. I don't need you to worry about me."

"That's not what I'm-" She is clutching the steering wheel with clenched fingers, and you can tell that this is her final word on the subject matter as she is putting her armour on. "Okay. Fine." You raise your hands in defence. "Let's drop it."

She checks her phone again in the awkward silence that ensues, presumably about to take off, but by some sheer dumb luck, you make out a shape in the shadows nearest the back alley wall. She is walking quickly, staying as far away from the street as is physically possible on a sidewalk, and based on that hurried walk and stature alone, you are immediately sure that it is her. And this time, you'll do things right. You won't ignore a call for help, and you are not bound by any undercover operation. You can do the right thing.

"There she is" Liv spots her, motioning to get out of the car.

And as you trail after her, you think that maybe it's a good thing that she doesn't know the full story. You can almost justify it to yourself now.


	4. All I remember

**Author's Note:** **I totally lied in the description. As of now, this is not canon anymore unless you count my head canon, because there is no way Liv is doing whatever she's doing with Tucker in this story. Do your best to erase that memory. Liv and "Ed" = not a thing. :) Glad we got that cleared up. However, some other details will intersect with the show. This chapter carries some moderate warnings for references to disturbing events, but no graphic violence. So without further ado: Please enjoy, and remember to click that little button at the bottom.**

* * *

"Needless to say, Lieutenant, I fail to see the purpose of SVU being inofficially involved in this case in the first place" Dodds Senior states with a commanding presence that Junior sorely lacks. The only thing you appreciate about his attendance here is that he actually banished his miniature version from the room for this conversation. Sometimes, you inadvertently catch yourself feeling bad for your Sergeant, always in his father's shadow.

Barba is sitting next to you –yes, actually sitting still- staying unusually silent. There is something aggressive in his silence as he gives you the sullen sideeye, his legs crossed, leaning back in his chair.

You have been trying to smooth the waters unsuccessfully for the past five minutes with no back-up from him. "I wouldn't say we were actively involved in the investigation, Chief."

"Did you bring the witness in –twice!- to talk to her?"

"Yes, I did, but-"

"Then you were involved in the investigation! And I have to find out from a Captain Keenan, who calls my office to complain about SVU endangering a two year Narcotics investigation!"

"With all due respect, this wasn't about the drugs, this was about a sexual offence –sex trafficking- which, due to the international nature of the case, was referred to the Human Trafficking Unit. We followed procedure."

"If that's true, where is the case?" He looks at the ADA at this question, who shakes his head, the pads of his fingers pressed together to form a capital A against his chest. You want to nudge him with your elbow, because if there is one thing you can't stand, it's this boys' club Dodds and him have opened in your office, with Dodds taking your chair as if he owns it and lecturing you on things he knows far less about than you do. You are forever the upshot Detective who had command thrust upon her in their eyes, a bit of a hazard to be managed, no matter what you do.

Barba, in turn, refuses to acknowledge your presence now. "That's what I'd like to know. I'm not entirely sure why I am actually sitting in this meeting, considering that I have no involvement in this case."

"No charges have been filed?"

"It would appear that they are underway, but the case is struggling due to vast inconsistencies in the victims' statements."

"What inconsistencies?" you snap, irritated that he is springing this on you in front of the Deputy Chief of SVU.

He finally turns his head to meet your gaze. "I don't see how that's your concern, _Lieutenant_ , since it's not your case."

"I'm the one who brought it in! This isn't some small scale pimps and dealers we are talking about, it's international sex trafficking!"

"Perhaps you should have thought about that before-"

"Oh, please-"

"-jumping in on an investigation you knew nothing about."

"Perhaps this Captain Keenan should have done his job, _Counsellor_."

"Enough, please, both of you" Dodds interrupts. "Your bickering won't help matters. The question is-"

You are interrupted by a loud knock, followed immediately by Fin sticking his head through the door. He couldn't have come at a better time, as you are on thin ice here, but obviously, it is now the Deputy Chief's turn to snap at him. "We're evidently having a meeting here, Detective. Come back later."

"I would, but it's urgent." He throws you a meaningful glance, and no more words are needed between you two to understand that there is something seriously wrong here.

"Nothing is so urgent it can't wait for ten minutes."

"This is. I got Green Haven on the phone right now. It's about Greg Yates."

* * *

She won't talk. All of your years undercover have taught you well enough to be able to assess this, and as a general rule, if people who are used to the pressure don't spill within the first five minutes, you don't stand a chance. It's the same rule that applies to "silent callers" who phone the precinct then don't say anything on the line. A supervisor once explained to you that at a certain point, each second of silence makes it harder for people to start talking, because the pressure to say something that would explain their refusal, something significant, increases. No attempt at reassurance or persuasion will help here, no gentle coercion or emotional blackmail will work. Too used to this, she made up her mind before she even showed up. Even so, she came, didn't she? She's the one who sought you out. She's got to be ambivalent, at least.

"You have a fire?"

"No" you decline, "sorry, I don't smoke."

"Seriously?" she asks, her accent coming through on the "iou" combination.

"Seriously. I quit a long time ago." You feel as if you have failed some crucial test. An old urge flickers in your mouth, promising not only the stress relief of a cigarette but the ease of striking up a connection, standing outside together freezing over an old school gully.

She removes the unlit cigarette from between her lips, tucking it into her jeans pocket as she shifts her weight from one foot to the other, her arms firmly at her side. "I should quit. It's bloody expensive."

"Whatever keeps you warm." You shuffle some grey snow mixed with gravel around with your foot, creating a crater for you to stand in. "So…not that I don't enjoy freezing my ass off out here, but at some point, you're gonna tell me what's up, right?"

She shakes her head, looking around nervously at the unis standing on the other side of the parking lot at least a few hundred feet away from you. This all feels way too familiar for your liking.

"Things were fine the other day. They promised the T visa, they got you a safe place with a detail on patrol-"

"They say I didn't keep my end of the deal" she explains hurriedly. "They know. They know I lied about being here before under a different name, everything."

"Of course they know. They took your prints. Why didn't you tell them in the first place?"

"Because I didn't want them to say I had a chance to run away!"

"You owed them the money; you didn't have a choice. Your family wasn't safe. That's why you came back, right?" If it isn't, you don't want to know the truth. You are hoping she understands that this is the story she needs to sell, for her own good.

"But now they know I lied, they say the rest of my…testimony could be a lie."

"Then all you can do is come clean and offer more information. Offer everything, but only if the deal stays on the table."

"I can't, they won't believe me."

You mentally curse yourself. This was why you got Liv involved in the first place. She is a whole lot better at the pep talks, making grand promises about the help the NYPD will provide, believing and standing by the victim. Your willingness to make promises is slim, your mistrust more often resembling that of the victims than that of your detective shield. You don't do "but you will get your chance to face him in court, to let the world hear his crimes" because more often than not, it will blow up in their faces. You don't have that way with words. "It's still your best bet, Malena. He'll know you talked to the cops by now, anyway. Just don't do anything rash."

"You can't help me?"

"I'm trying, but it's really not my case. What do you want me to do?"

"I get it." She bends down to scratch Benji behind the ears, who gladly allows it. "You didn't help me…before."

"I couldn't. I wanted to." These words mean nothing to her, you know. This isn't about your motivation. The outcome is the same regardless.

* * *

"Hi, Brian" you greet him in your best, neutral tone, trying hard not to let him hear your reaction to the unnecessary message in your voicemail. You really have other things to be worrying about than missed calls from him.

"Hey!" He sounds awfully chipper. "Good, I got you this time."

"I'm a bit busy at the moment…"

"Yeah, I saw the news, a lot of other K-9s are on it. Weird as hell! Any trace of them yet?"

"You know I couldn't tell you that, even if I knew." You have no patience left to explain this to one more person, to hear one more individual's smug "but how did they make it out in the first place and why haven't you caught them yet?". Between press conferences and result-free talks with the warden, you wasted enough time early on in this search.

"Right. Well, I hope you find them soon."

"So do I. What were you calling about?"

"Uh, just checking in because-"

"Is it about the sex trafficking case?"

"Kind of, Malena's run into some trouble because she didn't tell the whole truth."

"I heard something like that." You should have heard it from him in the first place. He should have been straight with you, or at least warned you the second he found out. Fin was right; he always brings trouble along with him. Why do they all lie to you? Barba should have told you about Wilkins. From him of all people, you deserved honesty. Instead, everyone just messes with you until you will one day take the fall for it, and that day may be very soon.

"How?"

"I hear things. For God's sake, Brian, I'm on a nationwide manhunt, I don't exactly have the time to be helping you with your case!" What does he even want, what is he doing dragging you into this? You don't have the energy to care. You want him to go away.

"Hey, it's not like I'm calling you every five minutes; you're the one who disappeared off the face of the earth a couple of days ago! So excuse me for trying to find out what happened!"

Why does he get to be pissed at you now? If ever there was an inconvenient time to get on your bad side, it's today. _"I bet no one even knows you're gone. You know why that is? It's because no one gives a fuck. Not even that boyfriend of yours…shit, you must be terrible in bed. Do you pretend for him, too? You're a terrible actress."_ The rage that has been bubbling so close to the surface all day, so close it feels like you might physically burst with it, burns through you like acid.

"I'm trying to do my damn job, that's what, with two criminals on the run and a body count up to here!" you yell, with every shred of energy you have left to hang on to the present. "What am I supposed to tell you, that these guys enjoy a good bit of torture porn and like making it themselves? That Yates burns his victims while Rudnick likes to chop them up? Is that the kind of information you'd like to hear?"

"Jesus, Liv-"

"She helped them, and she…they keep on killing, and it's her fault! And she gets away with it!" Her smug face is forever burned into your brain, along with her "concerns" about your behaviour. An insane part of you is glad he locked her in that trunk. You don't have time to consider what this says about you, about what he made you.

"Who?"

"She just gets to live her life, except now she gets to make out she was a victim, too, and in her case, people actually believe it! That psycho-"

"Who?"

"-evil-"

"Who, Liv?"

And somehow, it spills out of you, like water boiling over a pot in a hot, uncontrolled mess. "Help", "escape", "again", "corrupt system", "baking", "again", "sick therapist" and the words: "Bronwyn Wilkins". The phrases, which may or may not be complete sentences, are a staccato of repetitive information, because saying these things alone is in itself so unbelievable that your brain can't keep up with your mouth. You weren't going to tell him. You really weren't. But once you start, you can't stop until you are gasping for air, the blood rushing in your ears, and you're slipping... _Stay present. Stay present._

"Whoa, Liv, stop, slow down…breathe, exhale…" He gives you a moment, breathing audibly into the phone, doing his thing. "You're okay-"

"No, you don't under-"

"-you're safe-"

"-stand! It's not a fucking flashback, it's happening again! _She_ helped them escape!"

"Who is this?"

You know he can't know, that even you knew this woman as Bronwyn Freed, that he only ever saw her and referred to her as the "redhead juror" (sometimes replacing the "juror" with less neutral terms) on the day of the verdict. It's completely irrational to expect him to instantly know who you are talking about, especially when you are dropping the name out of context in a pile of new information. But something inside you screams when "Bronwyn" doesn't immediately trigger the visceral reaction it does in you, the instant burning nausea and shakiness and a _hatred_ so strong it scares you, because you truly wanted to strangle the woman in that room. But her name means nothing to him. It's just one more reminder that he gets to have a normal life. He was there at the time, but all this didn't happen _to_ him. You are truly alone in this.

"Liv?"

"The juror…the one…" This is the moment when you realise you are not going to get around saying the one name that you were never going to mention to him again. He'll find out anyway. "The woman who helped Lewis escape from prison."

And now it is his turn to be incoherent, as he bursts into indiscernible shouting when the wheels in his mind finally click. You shut yourself away, refusing to process any of it. Meaningless words are all that gets through to you, and "how?!" seems to feature prominently among them. The questions are like spikes hitting a rubber wall, bouncing off it as you tune it all out, moving yourself to your inner safe place, except that you can't find it, because nowhere is safe now. Physically or otherwise. This is pointless. But there is something satisfying in his anger, too, something that tells you that you are not completely insane. "A natural response to an extreme situation", Lindstrom would probably call it. And what does it matter, anyway? You've lost, you've lost again, and again, and again, and yet you are still here. You are still here. But so is she. So are they. And those women…

"Olivia?" Your full name is one thing that always gets through to you – or most of the time, at least. You realise his tone has changed registers once again. "Talk to me, please?"

"Brian, I can't be the one helping you right now."

"I'm so sorry, I-"

"I don't…I can't explain again."

"Okay. Okay." There is a dead silence on the other end of the phone, as if he has stopped breathing. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

This is all it takes for you to want to scream again, because no, there is nothing he can do, nothing anyone can do. "No. I just…need to catch these guys."

"Yes." He doesn't tell you that you will, that it will all be fine, and you are grateful for it.

"I have to go now. I still have people out there, searching…"

"Liv, you're not going to-"

"I'll call you when this is over."

"Promise me you'll stay safe? Promise me."

"Yes." It's an easy promise to make, because you are not planning on taking any more risks. (But then again: Were you ever?)

* * *

And all you remember is her voice when she called you from the hospital to tell you she was "fine" back then. It has been playing on repeat in your mind ever since your last phone call, catching you right in the middle of mundane activities, a tape that keeps you awake at night. _"I'm fine, he's dead."_ Those simple words were both saving grace and dissonance as they poorly matched the dead tone in her voice, a cool assessment of her own situation that was not simply due to shock, but that remained later on when she explained that she had known the risks. A clinical approach that seeped through every word in those IAB hearings, which you are technically not supposed to know the content of. That sequence of events unfolding while you were UC (i.e. you were not there), the aftermath she dealt with by herself (you were not there), the unanswered questions that have stuck with you.

But this is an entirely different situation, and those killers had no reason to be after her, and they weren't. So you shouldn't be thinking about that dead fucker Lewis. Except that you know she is, and her voice now reminds you of that one hospital phone call. She is there, but not quite there, only half in this conversation as she finishes the short version of how they caught Yates. "…either way, he's dead now. It's over."

"Good. No one'll miss him, sick bastard."

"Yeah."

"And that detective, she didn't get hurt?"

"No, she's…she'll be fine."

"And you? Are you all-"

"You better not ask me if I'm okay right now. I'm done with that question."

"Got it. So are you on your way home?"

"In a few hours." Does her voice sound slightly slurred, or is it only in your imagination?

"It's the middle of the night."

"I took the first flight out. I have to see my son."

"How are you getting to the airport?"

"Taxis. They have them in Chicago, too."

"So you should probably get some sleep now." You mentally kick yourself for the words as soon as they come out, because correct as they are, you know she won't be getting any sleep tonight. And, once again, you are in that state where you want to _do_ something about it, to help in some way, to act, but you can't. There is absolutely nothing you can do.

"Huh" she utters, somewhere between a huffing noise and a question. "Probably."

"You…uh, you want me to stay on the line with you?" It sounds cringeworthy stupid, and if she were any less exhausted, she would probably point that out. It worries you that she doesn't. Her anger was easier to take than this unpredictability, this lack of reaction.

"No, thanks. I just want to go home. I just want to see my son."

"You said, yeah." This is definitely worrying. Something is off here. "You'll be home in a few hours. It'll be okay."

"People keep saying that." Her voice is barely above a whisper now, a low, humming whisper.

"Because they want it to be true."

"I'm so tired. I just want to go home."

"I know. You will. Liv, um, you should probably…drink some water before going to bed."

"I should get some sleep. Good night-"

"Call me when you get back?"

"Sure. Bye."


	5. Familiarity

**Author's Note:** **Moving on to a hopefully less dramatic chapter, unless the showrunners keep throwing drama at us. But no worries, we will return to the case in the next chapter. We just need a bit of a reprieve in between. Thank you once again for the sweet reviews, waking up to them really makes me smile. And I am particularly grateful for the expressed confidence of "I don't know where you're going with this, but sure, I'll read it". I'll take that as a compliment…I think. Don't get used to this frequency of updates!  
**

 **~Familiarity~**

" _You have to own it, tell him how you feel…but don't expect him to take responsibility for those feelings."_ The audience applauds the "doctor's" wise words, egging him on as the woman in the chair is reduced to tears.

"Aw, come on, he hooked up with her sister! How's she supposed to feel, buddy?" you ask your partner, who watches your outburst with moderate disinterest, licking his paw. "He's not worth it, just look at that wanker…leave him! Just walk out!"

"You talking to me?" Gus sticks his head out of the bathroom – still not wearing a shirt, as you notice to your dismay. Your deadbeat baby cousin, who's not so much of a baby anymore since he's well into his thirties, has grown way too comfortable crashing at your place while he's "between apartments". He blames it on rent prices and the "market", whatever that means, but you have a suspicion that hanging out in front of your TV all day and spending his paycheck on partying probably won't lead to a place to live falling from the sky straight into his lap. This apartment is already too crowded for a big German shepherd and you, the last thing you need is an additional freeloader. He does clean, though, and his lasagna is impressive.

"Never."

He gives you that pitying look again, flexing his chest muscles. "Dude, you've gotta stop answering Dr. Phil, please. Find something else to watch."

"Hey, if you ever gave it a try, you might learn a thing or two about communication skills."

"Sorry, I have a life. You should try it sometime. Get out while you still can."

"And what is it you're planning to do with all this hair gel?"

"I'm deciding what tie to wear to the exhibition with Katelyn." He holds up a couple of choices, each more hideous than the next, white stripes on a red background or plain red with a weird texture pattern. The former was a joke gift from Olivia, a homage to Barba when you got your IAB job and complained endlessly about the conservative dress code.

"Those are _my_ ties! What are you doing going through my stuff?"

"Hey, I thought you hated those? They were in that drawer with all the things you never wear."

"That's beside the point! They're mine!" Benji perks up his ears vigilantly, raising his head at your voice. You have a mind to set him on Gus and for a moment, you actually picture it. It would solve a lot of your current problems.

"All right, chill, no tie then."

"I'd recommend a shirt though! What exhibition is this, anyway?" You mute the volume of the TV as the young woman on Dr. Phil starts a screaming match with her ex.

"The _Untold Stories of Superheroes_ one."

Finally, you've found your anchor to gain the upper hand and laugh at him. "You're gonna pay a shitload of money to see cartoons in a museum? What, you couldn't just rent the _Avengers_?"

"Unlike you, I have a fair chance of getting laid tonight. When was the last time you even went on a date? Should use that chick magnet of yours more often." He gestures at Benji, who is eyeing him suspiciously.

This is an excellent question. It's not that you can't get dates – you've found that having a dog working alongside you truly is a magnet to women. (You wish you had figured this out earlier in your life.) You are just not sure if a few dates constitute "dating" in the strictest sense. You're not the biggest fan of one-night stands (okay, that's a bit of a lie, there was a time when you didn't _mind_ them), so you usually go out with someone for drinks a few times, but it's not exactly a fancy dinner and a movie kind of thing. Your most consistent relationship these past few months has been your canine BFF, and that's saying something. This is probably a good thing, as your first romantic involvement after a nearly two-year relationship got way too serious way too quickly, and within ten weeks, you found yourself trying to get her to an NA meeting, failing to get her to an NA meeting, arguing with her over it and complaining to your partner about it, who gave you a pitiful pat on the back and asked you if you really didn't see what was going on here. He also left the card of a topnotch therapist on your desk the next day. After thirteen weeks, you walked away, feeling like an asshole. So given that you didn't feel up to downloading Tinder on your phone, the next best thing was to be alone. Or to try the old school internet, which you did, with scary results. No, maybe being alone is for the best for now. You have Benji. That's got to be enough.

"When was the last time you shaved, anyhow?"

* * *

Noah is too old to fall asleep in your arms for sure, too old not to sleep in his own bed, his own room, to self-soothe and have a healthy attachment to you that uses you as a safe base for exploration. But you can't enforce all this, not while your lives are so unstable, not while you run from one thing to the next, getting held up at gunpoint, jetting to Chicago to hunt down serial killers, returning to a messy precinct. So you keep putting these things off until "one day", making up excuses not to find a new place to live, not to deal with things. The emergency state has become your permanent state of being, and you feel so damn guilty for leaving your two-year-old son with a babysitter for a couple of days –again, no father in the picture, no grandparents in the picture- that you can't let him go. It's as if all this cuddling can make up for the time you are missing while he is at daycare, where he is learning to count from another woman, getting his snacks from another woman. But it can't, and he is slipping through your fingers as he grows up too fast (and yet too slow considering your own age), running around with older kids at daycare teaching him new words every day. Back here, he is your baby still, although he actually asks for Lucy when you have a couple of days off to spend with him and seems legitimately upset that you don't do things with her when you are home.

You bend down and kiss his forehead, stroking back his hair as he lies curled up in your lap. He is the centre of your world. You love him so much it scares you sometimes, because you might mess him up, because you might die and leave him to fend for himself, because the world will, ultimately, hurt him, and you can never let that happen.

* * *

You watch her take the plastic lid off the transparent cup, stirring the parsley into the veggie yogurt. How she can actually take a spoonful of this and put it inside her mouth is something you will never understand. This is so typically her. Two years ago, it was the green smoothie craze, and now this. It's oddly reassuring. "You know eating soy isn't actually better for you, right?"

"Come on, not this again. I know the rainforest is disappearing, but what do you think your dairy cows eat? _Soy_."

"No, but soy can actually inhibit your thyroid and really mess with your hormonal levels. I saw it-"

"-on the discovery channel?" she asks, a fleeting smile appearing on her face. "You need to stop watching late night TV."

Benji tries to curl up underneath the small table, but realises he is too big, stretching out lengthwise instead and resting his head between his paws. Your search for a coffee shop that would allow dogs inside –at your insistence that this was a trained working animal- has taken up so much of your time that you have already lost most of the lunch hour you were going to take to spend with her. You are so glad she actually called you, but the conditions are less than ideal.

"So I can't be involved in the case any longer" she states matter-of-factly, getting straight to the point.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"I figured. You think I'm still here because of that?"

"I don't…" She catches herself. "I have been officially informed that it's none of my business. It's out of my hands."

"Sorry about that. I didn't mean to get you into trouble."

"You never do" she sighs. "I can look out for myself."

"I know you can."

"But I don't even want to know…I can't hear any of this."

"Got it. So let's talk about something else. How about those Knicks?"

She shakes her head, making a big show of how much she is enjoying her yogurt. "So K-9, huh? You happy there?"

You take a bite out of your cheese sandwich, pondering the question. "So far, so good. It's…clear cut, you know. You take care of your partner. You train together – don't think I've ever been fitter in my life."

"I'd have to agree on that." Is she actually checking you out? Yes, her eyes are definitely wandering.

You sit up a little straighter, consciously lowering your shoulders. "You just do your job and if you do it right, good things happen. You find the drugs, or you don't. You get the suspect, or you don't. You come in at a critical point and get to play the hero. When you're working with a canine partner, you don't play dirty so much. You can't. He relies on you to keep your head on straight, and you've gotta trust him."

"Sounds like a relationship."

"It really is. You develop such a close bond. It's like he knows what I'm thinking before I even think it."

"He's a dog" she points out in a tone that seems to suggest you are crazy.

"Oh yeah? Researchers at the Clever Dog Lab in Vienna have shown that dogs can read facial expressions, which means that they're actually capable of empathy." This finding got you so excited that you can't help telling everyone in your life about it, prompting Gus to ponder out loud whether dogs taste any good.

"Researchers have shown…? What, you read into this?"

"I like to be prepared."

"I…wow." She bites her lip, clearly stifling a grin, and after all the worrying you've done about her these past few days, it's so wonderful to see her smiling that you just want to keep talking even if it means spewing nonsense. Anything to distract her.

"I seriously love this job. Except for my boss, maybe."

"What about him?"

"You ever see those Harry Potter movies-"

"…no, though I expect I will someday." She seems to be making another mental note to tease you about your knowledge of this.

"Anyway, let Noah explain to you one day who Uncle Vernon is. That says it all."

"Uh, okay. So how come you left IAB, anyway?"

You are surprised her newfound buddy Tucker hasn't told her this. IAB, also known as the rat squad, protect their own but they still talk, and they just love talking about their boss. "I quit when things went south."

"What happened?" Her face softens with concern, the kind that reminds you that no matter what happens, if it's serious, everything else becomes secondary. You have an unspoken understanding about that in which there isn't much choice. You opened that path again, and now it's her turn. The simple truth is: If things got tough and you needed anything from her, she would help. And that's exactly what you don't want, to go back to that place where she uses that whispery voice with you. You don't want to be each other's crutch.

"Uh, something with an undercover case."

"What?"

"It's classified." It's not. Not really.

She gives you the look she used to give you when you told her you were going UC and would be back in a few days. You're not sure if she's aware of how much she undercuts that forced little nod of understanding with the way she exhales through her nose, raising her eyebrows ever so slightly. She hates to be shut out, which is really ironic, all things considered.

"They made us go into a…situation when I told them it was a bad idea," you concede, "and I got shot - not really though, I was wearing a bulletproof vest." She opens her mouth to say something, but you cut her off. "It was no big deal. But anyway, time for a change." You pick up the spoon and start stirring your cold coffee again, studying the way the milk has separated from it, creating patterns in the swirl.

You can still sense her eyes on you as she pauses before acknowledging "I'm glad you weren't hurt".

"Me too." You meet her eyes over your cold coffee. "I mean about me, obviously, but also-"

"I know." She glances out the window at the pavement without seeing.

"I just didn't want to live that life anymore." You feel like a coward for saying this, because you are sitting across from Lieutenant Olivia Benson, who has been through just about any kind of shit on the job that you can imagine, and yet, for unknown reasons, chooses to stick with it. Personally, you think her therapist is crazy for supporting this.

"I guess there's always a risk."

"But there's different degrees of risk." Somehow, you want to take her hand so badly, because this is something that only got through to you quite recently. "And how does the NYPD reward putting yourself into the line of fire over and over?"

"It's the job we took, the choice we made."

"But there's more than that. There's gotta be more."

"How did you manage to get into the K-9, anyway?" she deflects. "I heard the waitlist is years long and you're…not 21."

"Pulled some strings, sweet talked Tucker."

"Really…?"

"Nah, threatened to sue."

"You live and learn. But that quickly?"

"I'm not technically finished yet. Or, we're not. Training's a bitch, and yeah, I'm definitely _not_ 21 anymore. I almost quit."

"But you didn't."

"Nope. I already got an arm full of scars now, might as well finish."

She winces at the comment, and you suppress the urge to proudly roll up your sleeve and show her, because you get the sense she wouldn't think it was as cool as you. "So much for degrees of risk."

"Like I said, best partner I ever had. I trust him completely." You bend down under the table and pet Benji's head. He doesn't exactly love crowded coffee shops, but he would follow you anywhere. You will return the favour with a long walk later.

"Good. I'm glad you're happy, Brian." She says it without a trace of bitterness, although there is a certain stiffness to her words. You wish you could return them, but you are not so sure that applies right now.

"Hey, Liv, if you're ever at the park with Noah on weekends, you think we could…hang out sometime? Only if you want, I mean, I'm there all the time, anyway…"

"You, me, Noah and the dog?" she asks.

"Yeah, I mean, why not?" You almost want to withdraw the offer when you see her skepticism.

"I'd like that, it's just…Noah's asthmatic."

"He's allergic to dogs?"

"He's not, actually, Lucy, the babysitter, has a dog. But Benji's a German shepherd trained to seize criminals."

"He's well-trained, I promise. He's great with kids, he'd never hurt Noah."

"I'm not saying he'd deliberately try and eat him, but he's so big. Noah is small."

"I've had him around young kids tons of times; he's very aware of his size. He's really gentle with them and I'd be there to watch him all the time, I'd keep him on a leash…I'd never endanger your son, Liv."

"I believe you, it's just…." She glances under the table at Benji, who cocks his head as he returns the questioning gaze. "You'd introduce them to each other slowly?"

"Of course."

"No rough and tumble play right away?"

"No, Liv, like I said, I want him to be safe. Believe me. I just think it would be nice to hang out…um, as friends."

* * *

 _Friends._ You are not sure how honest this proposal of friendship truly is. Two years can certainly make a difference, but as far as you recall, Brian isn't much better at building and maintaining friendships than you are. He always had far more acquaintances than you did, bringing free pizza when he was shot, a guy who called himself Crab randomly showing up at your apartment one day and being embraced like an old friend by him _("I know him from a case...what?"_ ) when he had never mentioned him before. You just weren't sure that he really shared much with these people beyond the moment they were both in. It was this level of mild dysfunction that actually made the two of you work at one point, that would drive two middle aged adults who have not seen each other in well over a decade into each other's arms in the first place, before driving them into companionship. But things are so vastly different now. You have Noah to think of now, a busy schedule with virtually no time to spare. Friends? You're not sure how capable both of you are of honouring this proposal, but for now, you'll take it.

You shrug effortlessly, as if it hardly took much thought. "Friends, sure. Let's go to the park."

"Good" he says like that's settled, and takes a careless bite of his sandwich.

And it's this little gesture that provides such a relief in that moment, the normality of it. Because beneath the awkwardness of the two years, you've both been here before, you know the routine, and no one has to negotiate the limits. You don't need some kind of heroic friend rushing to the rescue, the magical healing embrace, and neither does he. You don't need pity, and you certainly don't need to "talk about it". It is what it is. The romantic chapter of your life is firmly closed for now, perhaps permanently. What you want, crave most strongly at this moment, is a drink. And that scares the hell out of you. So what you'll take is strong coffee, a kid and dog in a park and comfortable silence. What you'll take is anything habitual, anyone that makes you feel like yourself again for a moment.

"You know, I'm not the same person I was." Saying those words out loud hits you right in the gut, triggering an indiscernible something – recognition, joy and grief all at once, an emotion for all that was had an lost, all that might have been. Two years, and still…

He seems to force himself into a smile, something weighing down his lips. "That sounds awfully familiar."

"No, I mean it. I meant it last time, too, but…things were much simpler back then."

"Yeah. Sure. But doesn't everyone change? I don't think I'm exactly the same person I was four years ago, either."

He doesn't get it. You study him closely, searching for something –you don't quite know what- but finding nothing but earnestness. "Yeah, but…"

"I get what you're saying. You have a kid to consider."

"It's not just that, it's everything that goes with it. Right now, my life is complicated enough; I barely have a minute to breathe. All the energy I have left, and I mean _all_ the energy, is for him."

"Of course."

"And I don't think you know what that means."

"Maybe I don't, but I think _you_ are making assumptions here."

He doesn't get it. He meant well with his reassurances, but he doesn't fully understand what you meant when you said you basically had no time for him. (He took that pretty well, you think…too well.) Because it's not just a matter of time, is it? It's a matter of caring, of the dangers of emotional investment, the amount of concern you have left to give, which is zero. You feel empty, drained, and even if all he wants is friendship right now, eventually, he will want more, something else. You weren't built to be friends. And while he plays his patient waiting game, he doesn't understand that you may never want more. Ever again. Because you are _done_. Done with relationships, done with the complications and the untangling of bills running in one person's name. Let alone other things. You're a woman and yes, your body responds, but you have zero desire to feel a man's hands on you right now, zero motivation to go through the struggle of staying in the moment and remembering that he is not hurting you. You have nothing left to give.


	6. Lie to Me

**Author's Note:** **My sincerest apologies for the long wait for this update. Real life hit me pretty hard as of late so I haven't been in the right mindset for writing. Still, I hope you enjoy this and if you do, please take the time to review! It makes me happier than I can say and certainly gives me a motivational boost to continue! This chapter is fairly mild with no disturbing stuff, but some dog-kid interaction and Brian's questionable decision-making.**

* * *

You like to think you are reasonably good with kids. After all, you had plenty of kids in your extended family to practice on before they became teenagers who pursued their own interests. Cousins would practically make you babysit in the hope of raising some sort of paternal instinct in you. Kids tend to like you, and you've been held up during a case more than once because you decided to retrieve and "bandage" a traumatised child's favourite stuffed animal from a crime scene, or made a young witness more comfortable by letting them interview you first. But small children can be tricky – you can never quite seem to make out what they're trying to tell you as their parents wisely nod and repeat whatever gibberish comes out of their mouths. And somehow, this is a different situation, one where you are acutely aware of your own words and actions, and that makes them less natural. You are watching yourself from the outside, and you want to be extra smart, extra careful, friendly but distant enough for a stranger. You feel as if you are play acting, as if any misstep would prove to Liv that…that what? That you're a bad influence who should not be around her son? That you do not think it's great that she's a mother? That she made the right call?

It's a tense situation either way, this first official meeting, and this is all in your head so far; you haven't even gotten to the part where you actually meet her to go to the park yet. That's tomorrow. (You have probably built it all up in your head because she had to cancel the last two weekends after work got in the way once again. Some things never change.) Now all you need to do is to not lose your mind until then, and trust in the fact that Olivia will be there and will probably call the shots, anyway, as she always does. Or used to do. This isn't you, completely losing your chill and going through the eventualities.

"Toy hide-and-seek" Tom reads out from somewhere behind your shoulder before you can close your browser window. "Sounds shady."

"You're shady, creeping up on people like that." In hindsight, you probably just closed that window a little too fast, giving your esteemed brother in blue the wrong idea. You could have come up with a ton of explanations as to why you were googling "activities for two-year-olds" at work, none of which needed to involve hanging out with your ex and her kid.

"What a comeback. I don't know what to say." He drops into the chair behind the desk opposite yours, stopping just short of putting his feet up on the table. "Relax, it's Friday afternoon and no calls yet. You and Benji coming to agility tomorrow?"

"Not this weekend, I'm busy."

"Oh, sure. Playing toy hide-and-seek."

You cringe inwardly at how he makes that sound. "None of your business."

"Wow, someone's touchy. Anyway, if I were you, Cassidy, I'd straighten up that desk. Keenan wants to see you."

* * *

Brian is completely in command of the situation, and it's an immense relief. You weren't sure how this first meeting would go, whether he would be awkward around a small child or whether Noah would decide to be cranky and do that charming, new little thing where he throws his sippy cup across the room. You purposely decided to meet Brian outside -inviting him over to your apartment felt too weird, given the history there- then realised that this was a terrible idea, as Noah is big on making you be fashionably late. Getting him dressed this morning was enough of a struggle for you to give in and let him exercise his newfound fashion sense (suspenders, a yellow sweatshirt and a red strawberry winter hat that's too small, it is). By the time you turned up at the park, Brian was visibly freezing his ass off even as he assured you with a forced smile that it was "totally fine", since he had only just arrived himself. The moment evoked a pang of familiarity, because this wasn't your newfound "friendliness" speaking or the two years that have turned you into polite strangers in a way that thirteen years hadn't. This was your life together towards the end, delays and assurances that one day, things would get better, "it's fine" and poorly concealed frustrations never to be voiced. You don't want that.

All the same, you apologised profusely, but Brian dismissed you with a wave of his hand and focused all his attention on the kid currently watching the dog from a safe distance while clinging to one of your legs. Despite his extensive daycare experience, Noah isn't exactly a go-getter when it comes to new people or things, and tends to be excessively jealous of anyone getting too close to mommy on _his_ day with her. Right now, however, his skepticism isn't aimed at the strange man so much as it is at the wolf-sized animal sitting in front of him, cocking its head.

Brian has made the dog perform a bunch of tricks, including but not limited to: saluting, rolling over and peek-a-boo. It's the latter that finally breaks Noah's resolve, throwing him into a fit of giggles as Benji lifts his paw from his eyes. It's an undeniably adorable spectacle, which his owner finishes up by high fiving him like a proud parent.

"Trust you to teach that dog a bunch of silly tricks" you remark with a smile on your face that won't be held back.

"Silly?! I can't help it if he's extremely smart. Gotta keep him occupied."

"Oh, sure." Even you can't help noticing that this huge animal pretty much has the most beautiful brown eyes you have ever seen, gentle and observant. Between his unquestioning loyalty and the adorable tricks, you could almost understand Brian's obvious devotion to his partner.

" _Platz_ , Benji." The dog obeys instantly, shrinking towards the ground. "Do you want to pet him, Noah? Here." He keeps one hand on the collar while reaching out for your son with the other.

Noah, to your own surprise, takes his hand and approaches Benji warily. With some help, he finally reaches out to touch the long, light brown fur, gently patting the dog's side, then immediately withdrawing his hand and glancing up at Brian with a cheeky grin on his face before repeating the action.

"Soft, huh?"

"Soft" he repeats, stretching out his arm again.

"Aw, look, he's wagging his tail…that means he's happy. He likes you!"

"He's just like Cooper" you point out reassuringly, "only bigger."

"Where's Cooper?" your son demands to know.

"At home with Lucy."

"Want Cooper. Cooper-Lucy."

"They're at home" you remind him patiently. "You'll see Lucy tomorrow." As usual, you brush off the pang of guilt you feel when your two-year-old asks for his babysitter when his mother is standing right beside him, telling yourself that it doesn't mean you are neglecting him. You shouldn't mind these things.

Brian jumps to the rescue. "Hey, Noah, look, I brought a ball. How about we play some fetch with Benji, huh? We just have to find a good place…"

Noah is only half fooled by this distraction, about to start whining again, but you simply pick him up and sit him down in the cart you brought between a bunch of his toys, a blanket, snacks and all the things that have basically grown attached to outings like an extra limb ever since you became a mother.

Brian watches this with an expression of unquestionable amusement, very obviously struggling to hold back.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"No, what?"

"Um, a wooden hand cart? Really?"

"I left the stroller at home today. Why?"

"Nothing, it's just…very hipster mom of you."

* * *

"So you still live at the old apartment, huh?" You throw the question in casually when there's a natural pause as Noah runs off to "explore" some bushes with Benji.

"Yeah. Can't afford to move." It's a distracted answer she gives you as her eyes never leave her son, who is pretty terrible at hiding. Even so, the game seems to be unnerving her. If you had to guess, you'd say he didn't get to play hide and seek a whole lot.

"There were cheaper, bigger places when we looked."

"Further outside the city. Far away from daycare and work…it's too complicated with my schedule."

"Oh, you have an actual schedule now? That's a change from just running out at all hours of the night."

She ignores the teasing in your words as she nervously watches Benji bouncing around like he does when he knows he's off duty and can be just a regular dog, rather than a detective in dog disguise. "I'm in charge, I don't get to have a schedule."

"And how's that working out for you?"

"Office politics sure don't get any easier. Noah?!"

The kid doesn't respond, too engrossed in whatever it is he is doing, but his bright hat is clearly visible through the branches.

"So…I'm guessing the apartment didn't suddenly grow an extra room. Where does the kid sleep?"

"In the living room."

"Sounds uncomfortable."

"You have a better suggestion?"

"You should move."

"Thanks, I hadn't thought of that- Noah, don't go in too far!"

"He's fine" you try (and fail) to reassure her. "Benji will keep an eye out for him."

"Benji doesn't know what to keep an eye out for."

"He's not gonna let a stranger near him, and he'll come get me if there's a medical emergency. So unless there's some other unknown danger lurking in those bushes-"

"Don't joke about that" she rebukes you and wow, motherhood sure has changed her and not changed her at the same time.

You feel like you are some sort of strange, alternative version of yourselves, who do this all the time – going to parks, playing, a kid and a dog in tow. It's new and weird, and yet the bickering is familiar. The setting is familiar.

"What?" she asks tensely when she catches you looking at her.

You can't hold back the smirk that starts somewhere in your cheekbones. "Nothing."

* * *

The thing you had forgotten about Brian was that he is really just a big kid himself. The realisation hits you as you watch him pulling a squealing Noah around in the hand cart, running around like crazy and making some sort of car, plane or rocket noise as Benji keeps fake chasing them, nipping at his owner but always missing him. You don't quite understand what is going on and keep expecting your son to fall out and hurt himself, but your two-year-old apparently comprehends and loves this game, as he won't allow Brian to stop. You watch in passive amusement as the more adult of the two gives in time and time again and keeps going, and wonder just how long he is going to keep this up. Not that you are about to complain – it's rather unusual and pleasant to have a break sitting on a bench by yourself, enjoying the sun while also being with Noah. His excitement is everything to you today as you see him be just an unafraid kid. It's so contagious and wonderfully innocent and as you watch him contently, you are suddenly –momentarily- certain that you are doing an all right job as a parent, and he will be okay. This thought alone fills you with a kind of satisfaction you haven't felt in a long time. He is okay. This means that, by extension, you are okay, as your fate has become entirely tied up in his well-being.

Brian lets go of the cart for a moment, putting his hands on his thighs and leaning forward dramatically. "I'm too old for this!"

You shield your eyes from the bit of sun you are getting. "That's what I say about ten times a day!"

"Seriously, how-"

"Bwian, Bwian!" Noah rocks back and forth, trying to make the cart move on its own as he does not appreciate sharing attention.

"Easy there, buddy. Hey, how about I sit in the cart and you pull me for a bit?"

Your son simply stares up at him aghast, not quite grasping the joke. "Faster!"

"No, it's your turn, you get out here and pull…and I'll sit in here and sleep." He lifts Noah out of the cart and pretends to climb in himself, clowning around and failing to make his leg fit to the kid's delight. This act continues for a while, until they both grow tired of it and Brian gives up, strolling over to your bench as Noah starts pulling the cart around and trying to catch up with Benji.

"You escaped?" You smile at him as he sprawls out on the bench beside you, letting his arms hang behind the back.

"Barely. Let's enjoy it while it lasts."

"Oh, sure. Let's pretend you only played along for the kid."

"Hey, I could be lying in bed right now with a cup of coffee reading a newspaper."

"A magazine, more likely. And I don't remember the last time I did that." You honestly don't. It sounds like such a far off world to you now, something that happened in a different era.

His smug expression fades as he turns serious, watching Noah trying to tell some sort of story to Benji that only he understands. "That's gotta be hard."

"What?"

"You know, the…single mom thing" he says in the same tone he would assume when talking about menstruation.

Way to state the obvious. "Yeah. It is."

"How do you…I mean…with your job and all…?"

"Priorities, I guess. They shift. But something always gives. You're never going to be good enough in either area."

"Who is, though?"

"Yeah, and I mean…I have a good sitter who's amazingly flexible."

"It's still impressive."

"It's pretty standard these days, I'd say." Something about his excessive admiration, about the intense way he is looking at you right now, feels like an uncomfortable tightness, as if you are trapped under some sort of "good mom" magnifying glass and he is turning you into something you are not.

"Not without the support system. Remember my cousin Meghan? She basically raised the boys by herself, but she had my mom helping her a ton, and her mom, and-"

"How nice for her."

"Sorry, I didn't mean-"

"Don't, it's fine. I'm good, Noah and I are good."

"I just…" He pauses, removing his hat to run one hand through his sweaty hair. "What I was trying to say is, I think you're amazing."

"Brian-"

"And wow, you still suck at taking a compliment."

"Well. Thank you." He still doesn't get it. You don't want his admiration, to be either on some kind of pedestal to be revered or in distress and to be saved. You just want things to be normal, even though you're not sure what "normal" means right now.

Most of all, you don't want him to feel obliged. To think that just because you've been in a bit of a bad situation, or because you've had a couple of talks about _real things_ with him, or because he gets it like no one else would, or because you've drunk dialed him, he has to keep in touch and rekindle some sort of weird, half-ass "friendship" with you. You've never been friends. You don't need to start proving to him that you're fine now, and he certainly shouldn't have to start some sort of "look at me, I'm a real adult" quest with you. You have nothing to prove to each other. You have nothing left to give to each other. The only glue holding you together right now is sheer familiarity, the relief of not having to explain to him _why_ you are a certain way. He already knows. This makes things easy, and it also makes it impossible to move forward all at once. You have grown too comfortable with the craziness, and you are too keen to prove to him that you are not that person anymore. You are well. You (almost) were at one point.

All the same, he doesn't look at you like you are crazy. He just listens. He talks. He doesn't ask questions. He plays with Noah. He does that thing where he lets out a short, throaty laugh at his own jokes like he can't believe the amount of wit in them. He sits beside you on this bench, and you catch yourself thinking that you never want this day to end.

* * *

You see her. She thinks you don't, that you hold on to some sort of idealised memory or fantasy of what might have been, but you don't. You see her in all her changes and all her old habits, and most of all, you know that there is always a limit to how much you can disclose with her, how much you can say before it crosses the elusive line.

"So you think they're gonna go through with the sex trafficking charges against Big H?"

The question catches you off guard as you have been walking side by side in silence with you pulling the hand cart, a sleepy Noah in tow. "What happened to 'I don't want to know'?"

"I do want to know."

"Honestly, I'm not sure. It's out of our hands."

"I hate that."

"Me too. But it's not looking too good, because they're thinking of Malena as an accessory now."

"Why would she be an accessory?"

"Well…"

"Why?"

"She helped Big H recruit, back in Belarus. Got him more girls, convinced them to come with her, that sort of thing. Turns out he wasn't just starting out after all."

"I thought she's only been in this country a few months."

"Nah, she's been here before, then went back for a while, then returned to the States a second time."

"What? How long has she been in this business?"

"Um, about five years or so." Olivia, on the other hand, has been in this business far too long to be surprised by this, you would think. Few victims are ever as forthcoming as one would like, and she must be way too used to these types of revelations to be shocked.

Predictably, she doesn't bat an eye. "So she's a pro, basically. She was wrapped up in the trafficking along with him."

"No, it's not like that, you don't know what these guys are like. If she was with him for years, he had her under his complete control."

"So much so she helped him entrap girls back home in the same situation?"

"Malena was just a girl herself five years ago. She was terrified and these guys have connections. He was threatening her family, her father, and what was she supposed to do? She couldn't just run away once she was back home, that's naïve; no, she was working off her debt and-"

"How long have you known this?"

You don't know what to answer, keeping your eyes trained firmly on the ground in front of you. Years of undercover work have not helped you prepare for this moment, which was inevitable from the start.

"Brian?!"

"A while."

"Did you know when you brought me the case?"

"Yes."

Her mouth is open as she stares at you, about to yell, then throwing one glance at her son, who is dozing on a pile of stuff in what looks like an uncomfortable position as Benji keeps watch over him. "How did you know?"

"Because I met Malena five years ago while working UC."

"You lied to me."

"I didn't, I just didn't tell you the whole story."

"Well, that's convenient. I can't believe- you of all people!"

"Oh, like you always tell me the full story?"

She is eerily quiet in her rage. "That's not the same thing at all, and you know it."

"Look, I'm not exactly supposed to talk about the Ganzel investigation."

"Malena told me she'd been in the country five months! Instead, I find out she's helped him traffic more girls from abroad!"

"I didn't know all of that!"

"Bullshit!"

"I swear, I couldn't tell you everything, but I'm being straight with you now: I met Malena once, five years ago when she was basically a lost kid. I have no idea what happened in between beyond what she told me."

"And you just remember a random working girl –not one _you_ actually worked with, as far as I know-"

"What-"

"-who you met a couple of times five years ago? Really?"

"Well…yeah."

"Fin was right."

"Right about what?"

"You."

"What the hell? What did he say?" You thought you and him were cool, if not since he slipped you all that extra info during you-know-what that Munch figured you were too fragile for, then at the very least since you had a little man-to-man heart-to-heart at Munch's farewell party. Fin is the last person you would have expected any badmouthing from. You have mad respect for the man. Or so you thought.

"Forget it, I've gotta get Noah home."

"You want a ride?"

"No!" She simply takes the hand cart from you without another word and does her best to walk away, making it abundantly clear that you are not to follow her.

It's not until you realise that you might not see her again that it dawns on you that you fucked up. Big time.


	7. 99 to 1

**Author's Note :** **Hey everyone, my sincere apologies for taking so long to complete this chapter. Just so you know, I have some drafts lying around and I have not given up on this story, but it may take me a while to update every time. Because life. Please don't give up on me! Your reviews are truly what motivates me to keep going. Without feedback, it's a little like throwing something out there into the void and waiting for an echo that doesn't come, a bit as if the story exists only for me in my own head. So thank you for the bits of encouragement! They mean more than you know.**

* * *

" _Hey, Liv…so...about today: I'm sorry, I never meant for things to go like this. That's why I told you the truth; I was always gonna tell you. You have to believe me. There was just certain things that I couldn't…um…at the time….I'll tell you whatever you want to know now, though. So…call me back."_

" _So you're clearly not interested in talking to me, but I'm not calling about that, I get it. I'll leave you alone. I just wanted to tell you that…Malena went missing. She called me and now she's gone. And I know you're not involved in the case and I'm not supposed to tell you, but they'll probably ask you if you know anything and so I thought I'd tell you first. So…yeah. I guess that's that."_

* * *

It has only been a couple of weeks since you last saw her, a couple of weeks of radio silence, but it's enough to put you on edge. When you left her a message about Malena, she called you back within the hour, as you knew she would, and invited you into her office. You were all the more surprised to find her sitting at her desk with her son playing with some building blocks on the floor. Somehow, it doesn't feel right to discuss pimps and disappearances in front of a child, even a small one. Noah doesn't seem to mind, however, and is pretty good at distracting you. You are all too willing to be distracted, wishing you had brought Benji along, until Liv trades the blocks for an ipad with a guilty frown so you two can talk like grown-ups. This does the trick.

She watches Noah for a moment before focusing her attention, leaning forward. "So Malena's disappeared. Again."

"Yeah, but it's different this time."

"Different how?" It's a neutral question; from her demeanour now, you could never tell that the two of you ever had a disagreement about this case.

"She left me a message. Didn't do that before."

"She reached out to you last time."

"No, it's not like that. This feels…" You can't bring yourself to voice the dreadful suspicion you can only back up with a "bad feeling" so far, which sounds pretty unprofessional. "…off. There's no point to it."

"What do you mean?"

"If she just wanted to take off, she'd have done that, not left any traces. The best way to get someone to look for you is to tell them not to come looking for you. Unless the message has another purpose…"

She considers this. "To make you think she's alive when she's not?"

"Maybe. I ran it by TARU; she called from a burner phone somewhere on the road in New Jersey. But there's no background noise to amplify, none at all, and she hasn't used a credit card, or at least there's none in her name. Got rid of her other phone. She doesn't own a car."

"You got the authorisation to look into this?" Your silence is enough of an answer to let her weariness grow. "Brian?"

"I was on that Narcotics case, remember? When the charges on sex trafficking got thrown out, they tried to make her testify on the drugs. Which is total BS because they have the evidence, it's not like the testimony of one of his girls who helped him recruit is gonna make a difference, they'd have taken it apart…anyway, they were leaning on her pretty hard. So it makes sense for her to skip town. I just worry they…uh…" You throw a sideways glance at Noah, who is mesmerised by the flashing game in front of him and clearly not paying any attention. "…got to her first."

She takes off her glasses, folding and unfolding them slowly. "…and if they didn't, then it's probably best for her if she isn't found."

"Exactly."

"So what do you need me to do?"

"There haven't been any unidentified bodies, have there? Anything that looks like a sexual homicide?"

"You'd have heard about that."

"Right." Of course you would have. So what exactly are you doing here?

"Do you have the message she left you?"

"I do." You fumble around your jacket pocket for your phone, nodding at the unsuspecting child a few feet away from you. "But…"

"Yeah…" She picks up the phone, dials an extension and waits for a moment. "Rollins? Hey, do you mind watching Noah for a minute while I finish up this meeting?...I know, but...I need you to…right, thanks." She puts down the phone, rubbing the bridge of her nose as you wait.

When Amanda comes in, you can tell she is anything but ecstatic to be the assigned babysitter of the day just because she happens to have a kid, too. You are relieved to see that she is still the same person, which you knew from the second she made it clear that she had very little interest in talking baby stuff with you when you ran into her earlier. The clipped, polite tone she uses with Liv tells it all – you guess some things will never change – but when she bends down to pick up Noah, she is all sweetness and the little boy happily goes with her.

Brian's eyes follow them as the door closes before he presses play. The message itself is nothing spectacular, just Malena's tense voice announcing that she has to leave for her own good, that she is sorry for all the trouble she caused and that she doesn't want to be found. You replay it a couple of times, mulling over every word as Liv listens intently. It doesn't unravel its mysteries to you any more than it did before. You have memorised each syllable and emphasis.

"Well, she's definitely in a moving car" Liv states the obvious.

"Yeah. But is she moving, or being moved?"

"I don't know. I'll have Fin look into it, but if there's no indication of violence or coercion, we'll have to drop this."

"Fair enough. Thanks."

"But I think you know her better-"

"Not really. I honestly didn't know her that well."

Her eyes meet yours as she searches them, opening her mouth and closing it again before finally asking the question: "Why didn't you tell me right away?"

"Look, Liv, I've done some things I'm really not proud of. Things that I can't share with you, ever."

"I never said I needed to know everything, but the details that are relevant to our case would be nice."

You shake your head. "I'm done with all that stuff, and I try not to dwell on it."

"I get it, but you have to consider it if we need the information."

"No, I don't." For some, irrational reason, something flares up inside you, like an old wound that is acting up. "What for? To be kicked while lying on the ground in some dirty alley? To play the hero? To be charged with some crime myself and left hanging? To wake up in hospital, in agony, not knowing where you are? To be told you're worthless and you're never gonna make it to the top, anyway?"

"We have a moral responsibility, whether you like it or not."

"Towards who? Our employer? Improve your stats and image, that's all they care about. They don't give a shit about a missing immigrant, much less a hooker."

"But _we_ do!" she exclaims with the rock-hard conviction that both impresses and irritates you.

"At some point, you've gotta admit you're just working for the man, and the man has screwed up this entire planet."

"If you really feel like that, why are you even still in the NYPD?"

"Because I'm gonna do what I love and do my time and get my pension. Screw them. This is about me."

She scoffs and gets up, walking around the desk and over to the window to check on Noah and Rollins outside, and although you knew this was exactly how she would react, it still infuriates you. Because no matter how much she goes through and how much they do to her, she'll still go back looking for more. She'll still stick to her principles, come what may. And she's still the only person who you'll ever have this kind of real conversation with, who truly understands. And that's the worst thing about it.

"I mean, I love my job. I get to run around and play with a dog, chase down bad guys without moral qualms or pretending to be someone else. I don't have to fight for my shield anymore because I already have it, and if I'm not really using it and taking a downsizing in terms of pay – so what? I'm basically an officer, just paid a little more. I don't have to take a lead on cases anymore. I get to go home at the end of my shift and forget about my day. And if I'm going to get in trouble for looking for Malena, so what, it doesn't matter. My career is over anyway."

Something in her expression changes at this, but it would barely be noticeable if you didn't know her so well every slight line on her face tells you something. "Good for you. But I'm not like that."

"I know you're not" you sigh, rubbing your sore neck. "I'm not saying I want _you_ to get into trouble."

She gives you the smallest of smiles in spite of herself. "It's a little late for that."

* * *

If your day hadn't been what it was, your evening would have turned out a whole lot different. This, at least, is the story you like to tell yourself, which pretty much goes for any day in the past near two decades you've been working at SVU for. If you hadn't gotten that one call out to a crime scene, if you hadn't said this one thing in court, if you hadn't walked into that house by yourself, if you hadn't… This train of thought never leads you down a good road, so you try to avoid it as much as you can. Still, if you hadn't been feeling vulnerable and raw that day, you might have cared less or been more guarded. You might have postponed your meeting to daytime office hours. If you hadn't had that evening meeting at City Hall that ran over as they continued to question your leadership style (you suspect this is all blowback from the whole Abraham affair), you wouldn't have been in this neighbourhood in the first place. As it was, however, you had no reason _not_ to walk over to the courthouse and meet him. You had no more energy for pretending or citing your own troubles as an excuse.

And when you find him hunched over on the edge of the fountain, eating Chicken McNuggets from a cardboard box, you don't have to ask how he is doing. "Enjoying your dinner there?"

"Sweet Chili is my favourite sauce, so I reject your judgement."

You take a seat on the smooth stone rim beside him, greeting Benji, who is sitting inches away from you like a statue with amazing restraint, x-raying Brian's food with the intensity of his brown eyes. "I'm not judging. I'm glad you never saw what I ate back in the day."

"Oh yeah, I did. I remember the cans."

"You never saw the cans."

"I did! So are you still doing the whole organic green seedy thing?"

"God, no. I don't have the time. I mean, I try to prepare healthy food for Noah, I pay attention to what I buy, but other than that…I'm good about 70% of the time." You wave away the reminder of a different time, a time when time itself wasn't such a luxury and you actually had the flexibility and resources to put so much effort and focus on yourself, your body, your mind, your life.

"70% is passable." His focus is pulled from you by a middle aged guy who is coming uncomfortably close with a gigantic camera, crouching down to take pictures of the sculpture behind you. He doesn't even seem to take notice of your presence, let alone the fact that he is within hearing range of what is clearly a private conversation, practically kneeling in front of Brian, who deliberately mutters "fucking tourists…" at an audible level. The guy seems to take forever, and for a brief, very paranoid moment, you wonder if he is just a really bad undercover agent. Or you would, if you didn't know that the budget for this sort of thing has been cut and he is too well-dressed for it.

" _Triumph of the Human Spirit_ " you comment when he has finally wandered off to take photographs of the courthouse. "I get his fascination."

"I don't care; he can go take his artsy instagram pictures somewhere else."

You both fall silent for a moment as you wait for him to dig deeper than some superficial annoyance with a stranger, but it seems like you'll have to coax every detail out of him. He is slipping through your fingers as he has done so often while you are trying to put together the frayed seams. "So are you going to tell me what's wrong, or are we just sitting out here on this fine March evening to eat McDonald's?"

He mumbles something in response, which is muffled by the fact that his mouth is still full.

"Uh, pardon me?"

He finishes chewing with an irritating slowness before swallowing. "I'm done."

"Done with what?"

"This investigation. I got suspended."

"You _what_?"

"I'm out for the rest of the week" he expands, clearly not happy to have to repeat everything. "And I got orders to stay about ten miles away from anything to do with this case."

"Why?"

"Good question. ICE screwed up, Human Trafficking screwed up, Narcotics screwed up, they all botched the case –mysteriously disappearing evidence, Big H out on bail, you name it- and somehow, it all becomes my fault. I'm their fall guy."

"How?!"

He smiles in a way that doesn't reach his eyes. "Because…I 'intimidated the witness'. Keenan's words, not mine."

"And does he have any evidence for this?"

"Of course not. He'll deny ever putting it that way. Dragged me into one of his 'spontaneous' meetings, no representation, drops random accusations out of nowhere, tries to get me to give him intel then catch me out in a contradiction…I have no idea what will even go on the record."

"Have you called your union rep?"

"'course not."

"Brian! You need to get help on this. A suspension is not gonna look good on your record, not when you're new in this unit!"

"I know" he replies calmly, carefully reaching into the corners of the last dipping sauce with his nugget. Benji's stare turns to a look of visible dog desperation as he watches his owner eat the last of the meat.

"And it's not right, the sex trafficking wasn't even your case! Who does this Keenan think he is?"

"My boss. But who cares; it's over."

"But this is your career!" You can't believe how he, so bitter only a couple of days ago, is sitting here as if none of it matters anymore.

"Exactly, like I said, it's my career, not my life. I'm done with all this drama. I'm not dependent on them. They have no power over me."

"How can you say that?"

"Look, Liv, in the past few years, I've pretended to be a pimp's security go-to man, a drug dealer, a rat, a dirty cop, a gangbanger, a killer, an addict…and I've _been_ a lot of these things. To the point where you don't know who you are anymore, because it all gets blurred and it's all so damn alike. If this business has taught me anything, it's that there's really not much of a difference at the end of the day. No matter where you go, 99% of people are fuckers. I like to call it the 99 to 1 formula. An asshat is an asshat on the street or in uniform." He looks rather proud of this last philosophical statement, which you'll bet he didn't just come up with in the heat of the moment. "They got a gun, we got a gun, but hey, at least we get a nice badge on top."

You exhale deeply, willing yourself to be patient. You are not here for a discussion of how much of a black hole he can talk himself into. "I get that you're upset, but that's not true, not in this case. You did your best to help this girl –and yeah, maybe you failed like we do so often- but that's not on you."

"It doesn't matter, don't you see? It was probably a set-up anyway, hell, Keenan's probably in on the operation for all we know. IA could never nail anything down, but let's be real, every precinct's dirty in one way or another."

"But _you're_ not. You know that." You put your hand on his arm, squeezing it to bring him back to the moment.

He looks unbelievably tired as he answers "I'm not sure anymore".

* * *

You talk and talk about "real things" and when you're done, you walk and talk some more. Random ramblings about your general disillusionment with the Grand Everything turn to specifics, which turn to her leadership experience, which turn to your experience with leaders. She listens. You listen. She fights you. You turn from apathetic to concerned, to needing her to understand that she needs to stay out of this just as much as you do. You're sorry now that you ever got her involved. And now it is her turn to rage at the system. You understand. You're both screwed up in different ways. The job will do that to you. You get cold, your hands hidden away in your coat pockets, although spring has come at last. Today, nothing can get you warm. It's the eerie calm after the storm. In theory, you are walking her to her car, but this walk seems to be talking an awfully long time.

Finally, you fall silent. You walk together but both incredibly alone in this mess. Even so, there is a selfish part of you that is glad not to be alone, a part so self-involved it is actually grateful for the drama that keeps you two here together. So much for "really caring" and just "doing your job".

"Is this awkward for you?" she asks out of nowhere. "Working together again? Or not working together now, I suppose."

You are truly caught off guard by her openness. How long has she been mulling over this question? "No. Why would it be? It's not like we, you know, parted ways on bad terms."

"I still wish it hadn't happened…like it did."

You are not sure what part of "it" exactly she is talking about. The one where you were both avoiding each other for days at a time, or the one where you barely talked, or the one where she told you she wanted to do better than you but then asked you if you wanted kids with her all in one sentence? None of it is something you are particularly keen to relive. "Hey, it's in the past."

She carries on as if you haven't said anything, chasing down some kind of absent train of thought. "I just think that sometimes, as much as you want something to work in theory, it's not enough of a reason. We were so unhappy all the time."

"Not always."

"No. Not always" she concedes softly, reaching out to cover your hand with hers, if only to squeeze it briefly as you stroll along side by side, trying to avoid the black garbage bags piled on the sidewalk for pick-up.

"Shit, Liv, it was like a curse or something. I used to wonder if…if none of it had ever happened, if it… _we_ , us….hadn't been associated with all that…" You still can't name it, not even after all this time.

"But it did happen."

"I know, but-"

"And you have to realise that without you, I wouldn't have made it through."

"Don't say that."

"No, it's true." The ease with which she states this is your second surprise as she watches an elderly woman rummaging through the trash without seeing. "It's no good wondering about things that were beyond our control. Believe me, I've spent enough therapy hours on 'what if'. But I don't want you to think that…I wasn't with you only because…"

"I know" you reply quickly, trying to keep her from saying the uncomfortable. "It was just bad luck."

"Bad luck and being sick of fighting it."

"I just always figured it was kind of like we were trying to build a house on bad soil. You know, you lay down the foundation, but then it collapses, so you start over again except each time it happens, you get more exhausted…and then you think 'shit, this has gotta be it, the last time, it's time for my happy ending now'. But it never comes. Everything just goes to hell again. So you just- Liv?"

She has turned away abruptly, wiping something from her cheek and pretending to check the zipper on her purse.

"Hey, I'm sorry-"

"No, that's exactly what it's like."

You reach out and hesitate before touching her shoulder, wanting to look at her, needing to know that she is all right. Instead, she just turns back quickly, burying her face in your chest as her arms wrap around your waist. You are caught off guard by this public gesture, standing helplessly for a moment with your arms hanging at your sides as you feel her warmth against your body, her fingers clutching your coat. It shocks you - although it's achingly familiar, it's also scary as hell. You thought you wanted her to open up to you, but you didn't want this, four years of ups and downs crashing down on both of you like a wave threatening to pull you under. So you wrap your arms around her quickly, tilting your chin so your lips almost touch her head. "Liv...it's all right…it's okay…" You stand there for you don't know how long, whispering sweet nothings into her hair.

When she finally looks up at you, to your surprise, she isn't crying. But she is no longer a blank wall, either, or a rock in this storm. Instead, her eyes are filled with a burning determination, the kind that you always admired, the kind you had a major crush on back when you were young and stupid. And when she reaches up to cup your cheek with her hand, her fingers seem to leave prints directly on your heart, or whatever organ it is that clenches in your side. Your scarred spleen, maybe. She leans in and kisses your cheek softly, a flutter of lips against your skin.

And just like that, you're not sure how, your face turns a little, and her face turns a little, so you're awkwardly kissing the edge of her mouth for the briefest of moments. Your first instinct is to step back about ten feet, to make up some excuse and rush off, because then at least, you're the one to freak out first and she won't think that you…that you what? But you can feel her hand still resting on your arm, not pulling back, her eyes on your face, and when you finally find it in yourself to meet them, she seems just as frozen in the moment, her lips parted slightly. She mumbles something under her breath, "all right" (you think), and the tension sucks you back into that old scenario where she is the one setting the limits, dictating the terms of the relationship (whatever relationship it ever was). Damn it, how can she still have this effect on you?

Better not to make a big deal of it. "Okay. I…" You don't know what you're going to do. Any thought is wiped out by the fact that she is leaning in to kiss you again, softly but certainly, with no hint of an accident about it. Her closed lips linger against yours –friend, ex-lover, friend, love, whatever- and it feels natural, familiar, although you wish you hadn't eaten that chili sauce. You reach up to touch her cheek, lightly brushing your thumb across it before you both seem to decide at the same time that this is quite enough. If you hadn't, Benji certainly seems to hold that opinion, judging from his short bark.

"Sorry" she says breathily, and not the least bit sorry.

"Hey, I'm not complaining."

She pulls out of the embrace, one arm still around your waist. "Let's go. I have to get home."


	8. Little Me and Little You

**Author's Note:** **I'll keep it brief: Thanks to everyone who reads and obviously does not review. :D But also a massive thanks to the few who do take the time and courage to drop a line. I love reading your thoughts. This chapter will be a little different from the others by using song quotes (in italics). Yes, yes, I know, how stereotypical! But I couldn't resist. : ) Quotes are all from Asaf Avidan's** _ **Reckoning Song (One Day).**_

* * *

 _No more tears, my heart is dry_

 _I don't laugh and I don't cry_

"So you spent some time together and played with Noah. That's all."

"Yes" you reaffirm impatiently. Maybe it's the relationship history here, but for your therapist, he seems way too invested into the question of "did they or didn't they?". (Obviously, you left the kissing out of the story. It seemed way too high school to mention.)

He stares at you, unblinking in that weird way he does, waiting for something else. Clearly, he has missed the entire point of what you have been telling him for the past five minutes.

"And I read Noah a bedtime story even though it was way past his bedtime, since he was in his cuddly mood because I got home late and he didn't get to see me all day. So Brian, uh, he stayed for that then left. And if it weren't for him, the kid would have been in bed on time and we wouldn't have been running late the next day."

Again, Lindstrom seems unimpressed. "Is this what you are concerned about? That you may be neglecting Noah?"

"God, no!" How does he always find your worst fear then make it ten times worse by voicing it? "I don't exactly do this every day. But I don't really have any time left to give to other people. And I took Brian home, and he did these different voices when we read the story and- anyway, he's good with him and Noah _likes_ him."

"And the problem with that is…?"

"I don't want to be one of those single mothers taking a different man home every night."

Finally, a frown appears on his wrinkled forehead. "It hardly sounds like that reflects your lifestyle at all."

"No, but I need to protect my son. He spent his first year of life in all these different families, you know that. I need to give him stability. What if he gets attached to Brian?"

"From what you've told me, he has seen the man a handful of times."

"I don't mean now, but eventually. What if I let him get close, and then he leaves? Or what if something happens and I don't want him around anymore? I've just figured all this out, got into a sort of routine and…I don't know. Maybe I'm making way too much out of this."

"Olivia, what I hear is a legitimate concern for your son's welfare. In the past year-and-a-half –almost two years- I have watched you do everything in your power to provide a safe, nurturing environment for that child. And I think you know that the key to that can't be to keep all other adults away from Noah and teach him to grow up in fear, we've talked about that. You want him to have meaningful relationships with other people and you can't prevent everything simply because something _might_ happen."

You open your mouth to correct him, but he stops you and leans forward in his chair. "Please, let me finish. So one aspect in this is your role as a mother and your desire to protect Noah. But I wonder how much of this worry is due to your history with Brian and a concern that you may get hurt in this. That you may…'let him get close' again, as you put it."

You mull this over for a moment, looking out through the small gap between the blinds and the windowsill at the last rays of sunlight. You don't know why your therapist insists on keeping this room as dark as it is. To give you the illusion of privacy, you suppose, as you lay bare your innermost fears. Is this sort of pop psychology what you are paying him for? It's not like the thought hasn't occurred to you before. "How could I get hurt when I don't even know what I want?"

"That's an excellent question. What is it you are getting out of this…relationship, whatever it is?"

"Company, I suppose. Companionship. Comfort. Conversation. Nice alliteration, huh?"

"These are very basic, very human desires, especially at this stage in life."

You congratulate yourself on your credible portrayal of humanity. "And it's just easy with Brian. With someone else, I'd have to start over again. I'd have to tell them…everything. He already knows and he doesn't mind. I guess that's part of it – he knows that I'm…" You refuse to use the word "damaged", because you have used up too many hours of therapy to work on that feeling. "…he knows that some things are difficult for me. And I think that he…cares for me anyway." You don't know why this makes your stomach tense up. "And being around him feels so good, so familiar. But I don't want to use him, to lead him on or be with him just because it's easy."

"Have you voiced these concerns to Brian?"

In response, all you can do is give him a tired smile that questions whether this man knows you at all.

* * *

 _The founding fathers of our plane_

 _That's stuck in heavy clouds of rain_

You barely manage to shut the door behind you before he starts yelling at you. "Exactly what part of 'suspended' did you not understand, Cassidy?!"

"I'm just here to submit a formal statement objecting to my suspension, Captain." You try to hand him the paper as calmly as possible, concealing the nerves and effort that went into writing it. Formal letters are not your sort of thing - there's a reason why you never went for that law degree like your mother wanted. In the end, your useless cousin finally did a good thing and proof read the letter, giving you some writing tips.

"And you think that'll change things?"

"I am only here to submit my statement" you repeat, urging him to accept the letter without letting yourself be drawn into another verbal (undocumented) argument. You want a written justification for all this, a paper trail. Maybe you are being paranoid, but years of experience concealing your true identity, waking up drenched in sweat for fear of being found out, having nightmares about your identity being erased on the computer like in that damn mafia movie have done their job. You will not be pulled into yet another backroom interrogation. You transferred here precisely because you wanted to avoid all of that.

"Damn it, Cassidy, you're just making things worse for yourself."

"Is that a threat, sir?"

"A threat?!" He sits down forcefully in his broad office chair, clutching the armrests. "A threat, you have some nerve. Do you even realise that I'm trying to look out for you?"

"I didn't intimidate any witnesses. If this charge is brought against me, it should be brought by IAB." You are so glad you rehearsed different versions of this conversation in your head.

"You think you'd be doing yourself a favour by bringing your old buddies from IAB into this? Really? Because you really don't get too many strikes with them."

"I am being suspended for something I didn't do. I want the opportunity to defend myself."

Keenan crosses his arms above his stomach, slowly shaking his head. "That's naïve and you know it. You say you did nothing wrong. Okay. My advice: Take the suspension, get some time off, take care of yourself, you'll be back in no time."

"It will be on my record."

"That's right, and you're still on probation here. I could have you kicked out in no time."

Benji tenses up beside you, pressing closer to your leg as if to protect you. He is trained to stay calm and respond only to commands, but at this very moment, you can tell he would jump the man for you. This is oddly reassuring. You subtly return his touch with your leg to settle him down. "I've done nothing wrong."

"Let's see: You've disobeyed my direct order to stay out of this case, the case went down the drain, and a witness has taken off. I see how this is going perfectly. Look, 1 P-P are all over me wanting heads to roll. I don't have a choice; this was the best I could do."

If there's anything you hate more than his forceful objection, it is moments of weakness from a superior when they assign blame to their officers to save their own asses. _I can't help it. The burden of command. Pity me._ It's a red rag to you, and in this moment, Keenan officially becomes pathetic. You always have a choice. And as usual, you make the wrong one and don't hold back, despite all good intentions. Self-preservation is not your forte. "You think I don't know that someone wants this case kept quiet? That someone's protecting a sex trafficker here? Who is that rat bastard paying around here to get off-"

"Those are some serious accusations to make without proof! Anything else?"

If you had any, you wouldn't hand it to him. "We _had_ those drugs, Captain, we had him, and yet he walks? That's bullshit!"

"Come on, you're too old to be that naïve!" He points his finger at you, but does not quite manage to pull off the threatening act. Again, Benji tenses up beside you, his hair standing on end. "You know what you did!"

"No, that's the one thing I don't know!" It's as if you are stuck in that modern play Olivia once dragged you to, the one where you had no clue what was going on and the guy got accused of something without ever being told what the charge was, with everyone applauding the art of it all without getting that it was one big fucking waste of time. If you wanted to see that sort of thing, you could simply go to work.

Keenan takes a long look at you, his lips vanishing under his moustache, before he turns his attention back to his computer screen, clearly dismissing you. "Leave your letter, Cassidy. I don't want to see you here again until you're back on duty, not a peek of that face of yours. Is that understood?"

"Perfectly, Captain."

You storm out of his office, making heads turn. So what, you suppose you won't get old in this department, either. You try to walk it off in the parking lot, semi-convinced that security will come and escort you away from the building, but again, Keenan proves his half-ass approach to things by not going that far. Benji keeps walking in front of your feet, beside your feet, right behind you at your heels so it's hard not to trip over him. It all comes down to one thing: You don't have another choice. And once you make it, you take a deep breath, take your phone out of your pocket and search your contacts.

"Cassidy! Always a pleasure." You hate that dry tone he puts on so much you can never spot the few occasions when he isn't being ironic.

"Oh, I know. You miss me, _Captain_?"

"I'll miss you when I want typos in all my reports and a detective who's always AWOL."

"And I'll miss you when I…never mind, can't think of anything."

"So what did you do this time? Accidentally slept with a hooker again?"

"It was a threesome this time." Years after the fact, and he still won't let it go. Tucker may have tolerated you, but essentially, anyone who fails once is a piece of shit to him, and he is not afraid to let you know it. Constantly. That's what makes asking anything of him damn near impossible.

"Thanks for the info. Now stop wasting my time and get to the point."

"Not on the phone. Can I come speak to you- no one else, just you directly?"

* * *

 _But rich men can't imagine poor_

The girl is, for lack of a better word, well kept, just like Malena. Her tasteful, tight dress looks expensive, showing off her curves and chubby places, her hair is dyed in those flowing, multicoloured bronze highlights, and her purse came straight from Fifth Avenue. She is far from pretty, but can't help but draw attention to herself around here, turning the heads of old and young officers alike as she walks past in her high heels. So unlike Malena. Now, she is trying and failing to shrink into your chair, glancing back over her shoulder until you closed the blinds. She refused to talk to Dodds, so you assumed it was something to do with him being a man and pulled in Rollins, who is good at making working girls feel at ease with her – a misjudgement, you noticed quickly. The girl made an excuse and was about to walk out again until you gave her your undivided, one-on-one attention. On second thought, you should probably stop calling her "the girl" in your head when she is clearly a woman in her late twenties.

"I'm Lieutenant Olivia Benson." You use your full name, in that "hey, look, I'm also a woman and not just a cop" way you sometimes employ.

"I know. I saw you on TV."

Great. It doesn't surprise you. "Would you like to tell me your name?" you prompt gently.

"Kate."

"Okay. And how can I help you, Kate?"

"Will you write this down?"

A tricky question. "If you came here to report a crime, then I have to investigate. So I will have to put something on record. But I will tell you everything I write down and you can correct me, okay?"

"What if I'm not reporting a crime?"

"Well, why don't you tell me why you're here and we'll take it from there, okay?"

She doesn't look convinced as she studies her hands, picking at her nailpolish. "I just came by to ask about Malena. Iosilevskaya. Malena Iosilevskaya."

"How do you know her?"

"From around."

"Are you a friend of hers?"

"Sort of."

Okay. You are blessed with a talkative witness here, who is obviously terrified. Which means absolutely nothing, because she could be a concerned friend, or she could be someone sent here to gather information or lay a false trace. "What did you want to ask?"

"It's just that…I have not heard from her and I wonder if you-" She stops herself, sitting up a little straighter. "Maybe you talk to her."

"When was the last time you've been in touch?"

"I don't know."

"I can't help you if you don't tell me what's going on."

"It's probably nothing."

You give her a moment to add to the statement, but she doesn't. "What's probably nothing?"

She brushes her hair behind her ear, still not looking directly at you.

"Kate, I can tell you are afraid. But if you talk to me, if you tell me what you're afraid of, we can protect you. We can treat this discreetly for now, I won't come looking for you. No one will know you talked to the police. I want to make sure you're safe, but I can't do that if you don't talk to me, you understand?"

"Like you protected Malena?"

"We are trying to find Malena. Do you think she is in danger?"

"Forget it." She gets up from her chair.

"Kate-"

She turns around at the door again. "It's not like you all think, you know. It's not. We come here. We are not forced to do anything. He doesn't beat us. All we do is look pretty for American men. That's all we do. If she runs away, it's her problem."

* * *

 _One day baby, we'll be old_

"It's corruption, plain and simple, that's what I told him. And _still,_ he won't investigate. Won't let me get the intel-"

"I thought you were never going back to work for IA again? I thought you were 'done'?"

"I am done! Jesus, I'm so done with all of it." You rub your stubble that you really should have shaved before coming over to her apartment. It itches, and you need a shower, and your shirt feels too tight. Somehow, on your suspended days "off", you couldn't find the time to even take care of that. "What about Malena?"

"We have no leads. I had to reassign Fin and Rollins to other cases – sorry. There's just not a trace of her."

"I suppose no news is better than bad news" you mumble into the hand that's covering your mouth.

"Yeah. Kate got me worried though."

"Could be a decoy. You never know."

"I guess not- will you just stop pacing and sit down for a minute?" she snaps, surprising you with the harshness of her tone.

You feel like snapping back, but bite it back, because you know all too well how that conversation would go. At least she hasn't kicked you out so far despite the toddler who is happily occupying himself by running after Benji, wreaking havoc in the living room. Occasionally, your partner turns around and pretends to nip at him, which makes Olivia jump every single time and sends Noah into fits of giggles. "Catchu, Jiji!" (Yes, that is apparently his name now.)

You sit down on the edge of the sofa so her view of them isn't blocked as she waits for disaster -most likely in the form of a broken item- to occur. It's hard to focus with all this noise around. "They just won't open the case again without substantial new evidence."

"Are you sure that trying to dig up dirt on your own precinct or on Narco is the right way to go though?"

"Probably not. But it's not like I'm _choosing_ that route, you know."

"But somehow, it always comes down to that, doesn't it?" She turns her attention away from her son for an instant to give you a sad smile.

"I can't help it that this stuff always happens in front of me."

"Oh, Brian…" She rubs the bridge of her nose where you can see the imprint left by her reading glasses. She must have spent all day at her desk.

"No, I'm really done this time." It's what you say every single time. You both know it. You have made this pact with yourself many times over the past few years and months, the deal that "after this one last thing, I'll stop fighting, I'll watch, I'll keep my mouth shut, I'll walk away". You never do, not until you've crossed the line and gotten hurt. Literally. Physically. You love that line. Even so, you keep chasing that elusive thing, that purity or moral clarity where you'll be one of the good guys and you'll have won against the bad guys, put them away, done the right thing. Where you will have been absolved. Where you will have been enough.

"I just think there's not much you can- Noah, no, no banging doors against the wall! No!"

The kid turns around for a moment, his mouth forming an "oh" in awe at her tone of voice, before he slowly moves towards the door again, but Benji pretend-nips at him and distracts him.

"You're right, apparently, there's not much to be done. Or so your good friend Tucker told me."

"He's not my 'good friend'" she rises to the bait.

"Well, he sure seems to think so. Quick to stress how close you've become. Sounded like you were in contact all the time."

She cocks her head at this, giving you an annoyed school teacher sort of look. "And clearly, it worked. You're making it too easy for him, Brian."

"Seriously though, what's with you two being all buddy-buddy? Last time I checked, you hated his guts – and me for working for him."

"That's not true and you know it. I never blamed you for-"

"Whatever."

"A lot can happen in two years! Not that I owe you an explanation."

"Is it the…the hostage negotiator thing?"

Big. Mistake. She tenses at the mentioning, like you had guessed she would, and you are all ready for her to shut down completely, when she shakes her head and continues. "I've decided I've been making life too hard for myself. I'm tired of having enemies when I don't need to. I'm…just tired."

Something about the defeat in her voice, the resignation you are not used to seeing from her, gets to you. "Liv…" You reach for her arm, but she pulls away and gets up from the sofa, creating a distance between you by moving over to the window. You hesitate before following, keeping your distance by standing slightly off to the side, because you know she doesn't like it when you stand behind her. "Hey, I get it. And you're right. You don't owe me an explanation."

Her voice, that's it. Finally, you realise what is different about her, what has been bugging you. She talks more softly now. Everything about her is softer. You suppose she is right. Two years can make a difference.

* * *

"I can't believe you still live here" he says out of the blue, taking a sip of the water you gave him after explaining that you don't drink during the week anymore. (Well, mostly…)

"Well, you know the deal with the real estate market, and since I'm currently not a millionaire…"

"I also know how picky you are."

"That's not true. I just haven't had the time to look seriously."

"If you weren't so set on living in Manhattan, you could find something. You could have actual space."

You look around at the toys strewn around the living room/bedroom/whatever. He is right, of course, but he doesn't get to decide that. You know you will have to move eventually, you do. Noah is going to need his big kid bed soon as he's started climbing out of his crib, and a big kid bed cannot be moved around. He needs privacy, and you are not supposed to have two transitions at once – bed and apartment. But…but what? "I'm a Manhattan girl."

"No one is a Manhattan girl anymore. And this place was too expensive to begin with."

You are not sure how comfortable you feel with the fact that he knows what you spend on rent each month. (Actually, he doesn't, since your rent has risen once again.) He is tapping into the voice in your head that keeps telling you that you are a bad mother, setting the wrong priorities by being selfish and staying here. Noah should be growing up somewhere pleasant and safe, a house with a garden and two parents. The way you didn't. But it wasn't all bad, was it? Growing up in Manhattan in a nice apartment, spending your whole life here, learning to use public transport with picknicks at Central Park and kebabs from the street corner, there was something to that. It seems silly, but moving off that island is such a big deal in your head, like giving up a part of yourself. Of course, that's not what you say out loud. What you say is: "Noah's pre-school is close to here, and I don't want to spend half the day commuting, not when that cuts down on my time with him."

"Okay." He glances over at where Noah has dozed off on the floor with his head lying on Benji's side, the dog keeping as still as possible to avoid waking him up. (You both instantly grabbed your phones and took pictures of your babies.) "It is a nice apartment. Hard to leave, I guess."

"Yeah."

A moment of awkward silence passes between you as you remember how you picked out the very couch you are sitting on and very possibly nearly broke up over it because he thought it was "too low". He is the one to speak first. "Hey, whatever happened to Rollins and Amaro, anyway, when he moved to California?"

The question comes out of nowhere, just like his comment about your apartment. He is fumbling for conversation and you are not entirely sure what you two are doing here, prolonging his departure. But oh, Noah is sleeping so comfortably and if you have to wake him up now, he'll be cranky all night… "I have no idea."

"Come on…"

"I'm serious, Nick never exactly discussed their relationship with me. And she did just have a baby."

"But it's not his? We're sure of this?"

"'We' weren't there, but I'm pretty sure if this were Nick's kid, he'd be back here in a second. No, I think they're probably just friends now, I know they still talk."

"Hm, I don't think it works that way."

"Why not?"

"Because…." You can tell he is about to start on one of his random lectures here on a topic he has given a lot of thought. "Once you're attracted to someone, you'll always be attracted to them."

"You don't think attraction can grow and wane over time?"

"Yeah, but you always know whether you find someone attractive as a partner or not. You make that decision, and that determines if you're friends or something more."

"I've known people who grew more attractive to me over time." People. People like him.

"That's because you're a woman."

"What?! Are you going to come up with some kind of pseudo-biological explanation now?"

"I could, but it's simple. Trust me, a man knows within the first two minutes if he wants to sleep with you or not. And that doesn't change."

"That's sad."

"No, it's practical."

* * *

 _I know I said that I was sure_

"Bri?" she asks as you've already turned to the door, and it's the first time you have heard her use your old nickname again. There is something comforting about it. "You know that this is all that…is this okay?"

"What do you mean?" Sadly, you still haven't worked out the power of mind reading she requires.

"Are you all right with the fact that it's _just_ this? For now?"

"Of course. We're good" you reply with a casual smile, trying to keep your mind from running down ten different avenues at once. Because she said "for now".

* * *

 _And think of all the stories that we could have told_

You wish you could take a risk. You wish you could demask yourselves and see you are the same. You wish you could say the things in your head that haven't come together to form coherent words and phrases yet. But you don't know how to do that. Maybe you will, one day. More likely than not, you never will. And you will continue to be here, alone, saying nothing and wishing you could communicate without words. Wishing he'd know. Because if he did, maybe he could open the door a little. Maybe he could say what's on his mind.

And maybe, just maybe, you would see you are the same.


	9. Faking It

**Author's Note:** **Aaah, I know, I know, it has been months since I updated – an impossibly long time! I just haven't been feeling very inspired lately as real life is crazy and I don't exactly watch SVU anymore. However, I have so many chapter drafts lying around for this story and I am strangely attached to this, my little alternative reality fantasy of "what could have been" (and will definitely never be now). So I am not ready to give up on this story just yet. Hope you're all well and somewhat enjoying this although it may have been so long. You will notice this chapter is a little different as well.**

 **So, as a reminder, previously on** _ **Bookends**_ **(enter serious voice-over): Olivia and Brian are sort of seeing each other (or are they? who knows with these two, really…) and it's enough for Olivia to wonder where it's going and discuss it with her unblinking therapist. Brian got suspended for being Brian and butting in, stumbling across what may or may not be corruption. Malena, the sex worker who was going to testify against a drug dealer/sex trafficker, is still missing. Her friend Kate came to talk to Olivia, but didn't really divulge anything. Olivia and Brian are both saying they will stay out of it.** _ **Really**_ **this time. Fin thinks this whole thing sounds like a bad idea, but no one is asking his opinion. Noah likes dogs.**

 **This chapter is fairly fluffy for the most part, except for one section relating to the case.**

* * *

 _[…]Shocked into sleeplessness you're scared of bed._

 _We never could talk much, and now don't try._

 _You're like book ends, the pair of you, she'd say,_

 _Hog that grate, say nothing, sit, sleep, stare[…]"_

 _~Tony Harrison: Book Ends_

* * *

[So how important can it be for this case to involve both the K-9 and SVU]

[Nick, you know I can't discuss current cases with you. Least of all via imessage!]

[idc about the case, I care about the part where it ends with ducking Cassidy coming over to your apartment!] […not ducking.]

[Thanks for the clarification. None of your business, but there was no ducking! And since when do you swear?]

[Still! It's Cassidy!] You love Nick a little more for how worked up he is getting over this. In a weird way, you have always appreciated his suspicion of Brian, mostly because he was one of the only people who didn't seem to think the man was a saint for staying with his poor, psycho, possibly sexually deviant girlfriend. While the trial increased your notoriety and simultaneously ruined your public image, it seemed to do the opposite for Brian, getting him cards and random gifts like self-help books from (mainly female) coworkers. Apparently, all it takes is one abducted girlfriend to raise a man's popularity with women. Nick was the only one who called out the bullshit – while also being unafraid to tell you when you were being an asshole to Brian by not picking up the phone.

[Liv? So…? You gonna tell me what's going on here or do I have to FaceTime you? That could get awkward because I'm sitting here with Gil and I'm not sure he's ready for this conversation.]

[Then put down the phone and be with your son!]

[Nice try. Either you spill or I'll have to be a parent and turn off this dumb movie]

[There is nothing going on with Brian – not that it's any of your business! We're working together. We're friends. That is all.] Maybe Nick and Lindstrom should get together to discuss this.

[Friends. Um. Sure. Whatever.]

[You sound like a teenage girl on imessage]

[And you sound incredibly naïve for my partner Olivia.]

[Bye Nick]

[ttyl] [Hey, Liv? Can you ask Brian if he got to pick the puppy he worked with? Because if I got special training, I could totally do this. It'd be perfect for my job.]

[Absolutely not.]

* * *

"Uh, whatcha doing?" You are almost afraid to ask, since it looks like Brian is currently dragging a squealing Noah around the living room on a large rag in order to clean the floor. This was not your idea of "hanging out" after work to keep him busy on his suspended days off. Noah is all ready for bed and that is precisely where you were about to put him, but a two minute bathroom break was all it took to somehow turn this into an action game, getting him worked up again.

"Playing magic flying carpet" Brian explains as if it's obvious. The look on your face must be giving away what you think about this, because his zeal seems to deflate a little as he stops and bends down to scoop Noah up. "Okay, buddy, time to fly into bed!"

Noah starts to protest until he holds him like an airplane, making him "fly" through the room. "Prepare for a rough landing!"

* * *

You are flying, literally flying after figuratively getting a two-year-old all worked up before bedtime. You have no idea what happened there while she put him to bed, as you sat in this living room wondering if you should just go, as you tried to make yourself useful by tidying up the table a bit, then immediately felt guilty because you can't exactly clean up a strange apartment. Old habits, you suppose. It's so strange to be here again and you hardly recognise yourself, unsure of what to do with your legs and arms and where to sit. But something must have happened just now, because where she seemed tense before and was trying to tell you some story about department politics, all trace of it is now gone. She walks back out of the bedroom (wait a minute, do they share a bedroom now or does he sleep in here?) wearing yoga pants and a long sweater that reaches almost up to her knees. It's as if she has discarded not only her work attire, but everything else with it, locked the baggage away in a cupboard somewhere. She tiptoes lightly on her bare feet, and her invitation to stay for "a drink" (of what, juice?) sounds completely non-indecent, yet playful.

Still, as you sit and talk, keeping your distance and dancing around the subject of work, it is a complete surprise when she asks you to come on a dinner invitation with her with some couple she befriended from Noah's preschool.

"Dinner?"

"Just dinner and talking among grown-ups while the kids sleep. Or, more likely, play on the ipad."

"Uh, well, thanks, but I'm not sure that's such a great idea."

Her face falls, but she is clearly unsurprised, breaking eye contact. The moment is gone. "Forget it."

"It's not that I don't want to do something with you, I mean I do want to…you know…not like that. I like dinner, but I'm just not sure dinner parties are my kind of thing." The thought of sitting around a table with couples who have babies is pretty awful. What would you even say to them? "I can barely tell which fork is for which dish."

She smiles at your rambling. "Didn't they explain that in _Titanic_?"

"Liv, I'm just not the guy you take to a fancy dinner party. C'mon."

"I know, but if you don't come, they'll just set me up with one of their divorced accountant friends again."

"What's wrong with that? You know, I always pictured you with this dude called Lester, who uses a lot of hair gel and enjoys his Beethoven."

"Funny, that's how I always pictured myself, too."

"Hm-mh, Lester will do your taxes, Lester will invite you to have escargot with him at a pricey restaurant…he's a real estate guy, by the way. Lester would hook you up with an apartment in no time."

"Stop. Look, I'm not forcing you to go. Are you in or not?"

"Let me get this straight: You're inviting me as a cockblocker?"

She pretends to find this offensive, pursing her mouth. "When you put it that way…"

"Can I bring Benji? Do I have to wear a tie?"

"I'm gonna ask about Benji. And you're a grown man, I think you can dress yourself."

"All right, chucks and those hipster pants that don't cover your ankles it is."

"So that's a yes?"

"Who could say no to free food?"

* * *

You are trying to make friends, really trying, and are somewhat surprised to find that it takes a lot more effort at your age and in your position than it would have done even a decade ago. Your only social contacts outside work are the parents at Noah's preschool, and most of them are much younger and actually married (though not necessarily to the father of their kids). You don't feel _like_ them at all, and have this strange paranoia that they will see through you and judge you for not being Noah's birth mother, that they'll find out you are "faking it" somehow, that often, you have no idea what you're doing. There is a serious lack of the quintessential single female friend your age in Manhattan social circles – and you are pretty sure the ones there are don't spend their time with overworked, older single moms. So when someone invites you over for dinner, you certainly don't say no, until the day itself when you find that you are strangely nervous, as if you have forgotten how to interact with people. You can't talk about your work too much or people will get too curious and tell you political opinions you probably don't want to hear. That, or they'll just get awkwardly quiet and change the subject. So you focus on the kids. It's easy to do with Michael and Linda, because their daughter –Noah's little friend Adelae- was adopted from Ethiopia at the age of 20 months. It gives you some common ground to discuss, although of course, Linda and Michael are a happy couple in an upper class brownstone. Still, sometimes, you can tell they feel as if they are "faking it", too, judging from how eager they are to display their knowledge about Ethiopia and reassure relative strangers that they didn't simply buy their kid from poor birth parents. You are pretty sure they will be heading for one hell of a puberty with Adelae there.

* * *

"Kate, talk to me." You voice it as a command, not a request, because she will be used to that. More often than not, working girls don't respond to the soft, empathetic "I'm a good guy, honestly, I just want to help you" bit. It's not an approach they trust. And they shouldn't. Taking charge, talking straight with them without false promises, being a bit of a jerk, tends to get through to them more. It doesn't exactly make you feel good about yourself, but your feelings are irrelevant here. And after all, you are not her therapist. You are here on a mission. You tried the softer bit with Malena, who still reminded you of that kid you knew sometimes. And look where that got you. You are here to get a job done.

"I can't talk to you. You know that." Kate is constantly scanning her environment, almost waiting for someone to spot you two despite the fact that you are sitting at the bar in a semi-busy joint. She doesn't seem anxious like Malena – no, she is far more practical than that, and you can tell right away that you will have a tough time with her. Right now, you are doing your best to look like a customer who is probably hitting on her, hiding in plain sight. How is that for a professional setting? (And why does it always come down to this set-up for you?)

"Okay, then don't- don't testify. I want none of that, believe me. But you gotta give me something. Anything. Some piece of evidence that'll get him behind bars and help me find Malena."

"You'll never find her."

"How do you know that?"

She chews on her lip but doesn't answer. "You just won't either way."

"Then do it for your own safety."

"I'm never safe when he thinks I talk to you!"

"He'll think that either way, you're already talking to me. Once he decides to pull out of the business, no one who knows anything is safe. You think he'll stop at you because you _probably_ didn't say anything?" There's the asshole again. You tell yourself it's a role, but after a while, it will be hard to tell the difference.

"Fuck off." She says it loudly enough for anyone nearby to hear, making it clear that she has absolutely no connection with you.

"I will when I know what my next step is."

"Next step? Let it go. It's best that way for everyone."

"Except for you and all the other girls he's recruiting."

She flips the bottle around in the air, catching it with a flourish although no one is really paying her any attention. It takes her some time to get around to clearing away some empty glasses. You decide to sit it out, and it is only when she has cleaned up _and_ wiped the counter that she speaks again. "Most of the girls have family back home, you know. They don't need that kind of trouble. Some guy showing up in the middle of the night, threatening them…some Madam knocking on your door during Christmas dinner. They can get you anywhere. It doesn't matter, you tell police back home, it doesn't matter, they get money, you tell police here, it doesn't matter, they get money. Watch what happens. Big H is, what, the smaller evil between that. You have no idea."

"I have some idea, I-"

"You have _no idea_." She says it matter-of-factly, without a hint of anger at your lack of understanding. This is the way things are, you know. That's life. You are the one who is angry about it. She has learned to live with it.

"I knew Malena, you know. From years ago." You are pretty sure you are not supposed to divulge this information for a number of reasons. First of all, you don't know anything much about Kate, don't know if she is playing you, if this is a trap or if, on the contrary, she actually knows where Malena is. Second of all, it opens up a whole new set of explanations you can't give to a civilian. And third of all? Third of all, oh yes, it's against the rules. A minor issue for a suspended cop.

"Did you arrest her or screw her?"

You are unfazed by the question. Truthfully, either option is equally likely. "Neither."

"Right. Sure."

"No, I just knew her from…around. I didn't know her well, but we talked a few times. I tried to get her to quit the business. Well, not really, I couldn't do that at the time- but I gave her some contacts."

She laughs without joy. "Oh, you're the guy who 'saves' women then fucks them."

"Think whatever you want to think." You know she is trying to get a rise out of you, get you to leave. And at that moment, you want to. Badly.

"So you gave her some contacts, you think she was just sitting there waiting for that?"

"I don't know. I know she talked about going back home. About…" You are fishing for some piece of irrelevant information that won't get Malena into trouble in case Kate is setting a trap. But all you have to fish in is the muddy pond of your memory. Truthfully, you don't recall your conversations with her in that much detail after all this time. She was one of many. "…how she missed the food and about the Christmas markets."

"That's not generic at all. Because Malena told you she likes borscht, you were friends and I'm supposed to help you?"

You shrug, trying not to let it show how exasperated you are with this conversation. "It's up to you, really. Help me, don't help me. All I know is I'm here at 11pm on a Thursday, and now I'm going home."

You slide off your stool and she hands you your jacket dramatically, which you had left on one of these antler-shaped hooks on the wall. "We appreciate your business, don't come back." She finally has an audience for this last line.

It is only later, much later as you fumble for your keys back home, that you notice the note in the pocket of your jacket, scribbled on the back of a receipt that you almost throw away. _try Blaze 8_

* * *

Brian is reaching out to squeeze your hand affectionately again. You wouldn't mind so much if it weren't for the obvious note of public display in his actions, the smile plastered on his face and the fake dialogue for Linda and Michael's benefit. He is laying it on thick, but they don't seem to notice, and you have to admit that he is good at this. Too good. You wonder if it's a revenge of sorts for badgering him into coming, or if he is secretly enjoying this playing house thing. Either way, it is irritating you to no end.

"Hon, remember that NY Times article we discussed the other day? About inflation and how buying is really the only option for investment these days?"

"That discussion must have been with your other girlfriend" you tease pointedly, drawing short laughter from Michael.

You can see a spark in Brian's eyes at this. "No, she's more of an Economist kind of girl."

"How did you two meet again?" Linda inquires, gazing a little too adoringly at your date.

"It's a long story" you reply vaguely, exchanging a glance with Brian. "Going back almost two decades."

"Really?!" More adoration and an eagerness for more. You really hate this sort of thing.

He swoops in to take over. "You know, classic boy meets girl, boy and girl chase criminals, no one falls in love, hearts get broken, hearts are mended, boy and girl date, break up, make up."

"You should turn it into a musical" Michael suggests, and not for the first time tonight, you are grateful for his sense of humour.

You are interrupted by a loud exclamation from the sofa in the corner. "Damn it!"

"Language, Duncan!" Linda reprimands him with an embarrassed smile.

"I almost made that level!"

"It would be great if you could put your phone away when we have guests."

The twelve-year-old considers her with a withering glare, not impressed. Boy, do you have something to look forward to with Noah there. "What else am I supposed to do, babysit the kids again?"

His mother's understanding smile grows more strained. "Look, I know there is no one here your own age, but it would be great if you could still be civil. You don't need to watch the kids, they're fine."

"Actually, it has been a little quiet in there" you comment, looking for a way to extract yourself from this conversation.

Brian is faster at getting up, his hand brushing against your shoulder. "I'll go check on them."

Great. You do your best to return Linda's strained smile. "That chocolate mousse was amazing." And now you are officially repeating yourself. How do people do this again?

"Thanks. It's the cranberries, and it's all Michael's doing."

"It's the Grand Marnier, usually" her husband adds, "but oh well…kids."

"So…" Linda lowers her voice, as if this would make her son suddenly deaf, "Brian seems great."

"He is."

"How come you've never mentioned him before?"

"Oh, you know…" She doesn't. "…it's just never come up."

* * *

"Adelae, no!" Michael calls over. "Gently, don't grab his ears!"

You laugh as Benji squirms away from her and the little girl, who must be a few months younger than Olivia's kid, toddles after him. "Doggy!"

"Jiji!" her friend chimes in, coming over as poor Benji tries to catch a break by lying down at your feet.

"Here you go, like this." You guide Adelae's hand as she pets your wondrously patient dog and Noah buries his face in his fur.

"Noah, no! Your asthma…!" Liv is about to hurry over but you raise your hand, signaling that you got this and picking some stray hair from the kid's face as he swats at you.

"There, you're getting a beard!" You turn to your faithful partner, who is gazing at you expectantly with his brown eyes. "And you're so getting a steak tomorrow." He really deserves a day off after entertaining these two-year-olds and posing for pictures with them for the parents in the room.

Adelae reaches for his nose again and begins to whine as her older brother yanks her away pretty firmly. "No, Addy! Leave the poor dog alone!"

"It's all right" you say to smoothe things over as you can see all the adults frowning at poor Duncan for his roughness, while the little girl's lips begin to quiver. "She doesn't know any better."

"'course she doesn't, she's just the _baby_ " he murmurs under his breath, too quietly for his parents over at the table to hear.

You lean back against the sofa, watching as the two younger kids finally lose interest in Benji, who has decided that playing dead may be his best option. "That's gotta be hard, being an older brother for such a little kid."

The boy shrugs. "Everyone loves her. She's cute."

"You know, I always wanted a little brother when I was young. Always imagined how much fun we'd have, how we'd build tree houses together and I'd teach him stuff."

"Don't have a tree" Duncan grumbles.

"I did, but I didn't get the brother."

"Yeah, well, _she_ can't even pet a dog right. All you can do with her is babysit."

"Now, of course. But just wait till she gets older. You'll be her big brother, the one she looks up to. You'll get to tell her what's cool and what's not, cover for her with your parents…you'll always have someone to talk to. Sounds pretty good to me."

* * *

"It's okay, I got him." He lets Noah's head rest against his shoulder as he steps back on the curb.

You lock the car, coming around to the passenger side and taking one look at your knocked out kid, which tells you that you'd better not wake him up.

"I'd say he's out for the night" Brian whispers in an adorable, far too quiet way, because he doesn't realise that right now, Noah would sleep through any volume. Almost automatically, you walk up to the door together, where you pause uncertainly.

"I'll just…walk you upstairs, okay?"

"Brian, I'm-"

"I know, but the elevator's still broken, right? I'll carry the little man."

"Thanks."

You try not to look at him, not to read anything into this. Try not to fantasize as you've been doing all night. Damn biology. You are not supposed to imagine…things, just because you're tired and lonely and it feels far too nice to have someone to walk up all these flights of stairs with you. _Come on, Olivia._ You are simply wiped out and emotional. That's it. Of course this feels nice, it would probably feel the same way if this were Nick or Fin or…anyone. But it isn't anyone. It's Brian, and the thing about Brian is that he's so perfectly oblivious. When he carries Noah upstairs for you, it's pure kindness and practicality. When he plays with him, it's because it seems like fun in the moment. When he cheers up a twelve-year-old, he does it because it appears to be the right thing to do in the moment. Because he's a nice guy (when he's not being a bit of an idiot). He doesn't realise that when you see it, every time, it's like grains of sand on your tongue, something you can't shake. That you imagine, when you see him talking to Duncan, what it could be like one day. But Brian isn't like that. He doesn't plan. And that's precisely the problem.

* * *

You wake up and for a second, one dreadful second, it's like all those other times when you have jerked awake somewhere (where?) in complete darkness without a clue. It's stuffy and unfamiliar, and every fiber in your body screams "get out". It only lasts one second, however, because you are used to it. You have always prided yourself on your ability to fall asleep anywhere and everywhere. It's waking up that's hard. The awkward position you are lying in feels unfamiliar. The blanket that is covering half your body is not yours. And yet…and yet you know this place. It's your apartment. Except it isn't. _Liv's_ apartment. But what are you- oh. _Oh._ Shit. You were sitting on her couch, waiting for her to return from putting Noah to sleep, and then…nothing. You must have fallen asleep. The fact that the lights are turned off, a blanket covering you, shows you that she clearly knows you are here and didn't see fit to wake you. Damn. What's the etiquette here? Sneaking out would imply that you had done something wrong. Which you absolutely have not. Nope. Nothing. Staying feels far too intimate. It's a Catch 22. Where is Munch's advice when you need him?

* * *

In front of you, dramatic scenes are unfolding to the backdrop of the running TV as a grown man lies stretched out on the couch where you left him while an animated child is climbing all over him, stepping on his limbs. You stand in the doorway and observe for a moment, watching Noah trying to clamber up onto the back of the couch, seeing Brian "struggling" to "catch" him, lift him high up into the air off the "mountain", toss and catch him again before setting a giggling little boy down on the other side, from where he runs around again, starting all over. Your son is a picture of glee, overjoyed at the rough and tumble play he doesn't really get much with you, provoking repetition after repetition as Brian pretends to be some kind of…monster abyss?...to be overcome. The sun shines into your overheated living room, illuminating specks of dust in the air and in that very moment, a kind of hurt fills you that you can't put your finger on. The longing starts from the pit of your stomach, filling out your chest, reaching into your very fingertips. This is exactly what you don't have, what you can't give your son, what you have failed to provide. You had better not get used to it. It's a deceptive moment to fall for, something that will never happen, and yet indulging it for now is so easy, giving in to this beautiful lie. _Happiness._ You wish you could freeze time itself, preserve this moment on a shelf so you could dive into it again at will. You press your lips together as you watch, swallowing an uncomfortable lump at the back of your throat.

"Mama!" It's Noah who breaks the spell, running up to you until you catch him in your arms, lifting him up and planting a kiss against his sweaty temple.

"Good morning, sunshine!" you say brightly, blinking back whatever is threatening to form in your eyes. You can blame it on the bright sunlight.

"'morning!"

"Morning, Liv" Brian greets you, an embarrassed little smile appearing on his face as he quickly takes his feet off the couch, sitting up. "Thought I'd let you sleep in for a bit, 'cause I can't see this little man letting you do that a lot with the way he snuck out of his crib."

"Yeah, uh, thanks." You carry Noah over to the couch with you –he's getting a bit heavy for it- but he starts to squirm out of your arms as soon as you sit down, trying to climb up on Brian's shoulders. He catches him again, pretending to want to bite him but really placing a quick kiss on his forehead before letting him sit on the armrest, one arm around him to keep him from falling.

"Mommy, too" your son orders in a commanding tone.

"Oh yeah?" Brian puts his other arm on the back of the sofa behind you and flashes you a quick grin before leaning over and kissing the side of your head, mumbling "'morning again" into your hair.

"Mmh a good one" you reply without meeting his eyes. Your cheeks feel hot all of a sudden and somehow, you can't stop smiling. Damn it. You can smell the fact that he is unwashed, notice his stubble out of the corner of your eye and somehow, you don't mind one bit. You could get used to this.

"You sleep okay?"

"I did." It's the truth. A deep slumber caught hold of you, muting everything into a dreamless darkness. Even Noah climbing out of his crib didn't wake you up.

"You seemed to need it."

"How about you?"

"Eh, my neck's not really up to this anymore." He tries to tilt his head slowly as if to emphasise the point.

"Sorry."

"S'all right."

"Where's Benji?"

"Napping." He nods his head at the kitchen counter he must be hiding behind. You have quickly learned that kitchens appear to be his favourite place. "The kids wore him out last night. I took him out earlier, grabbed some dog food downstairs."

Dog food? Yes, it sure smells like it in here, and you are suddenly gripped by the irrational fear of what you might find on the other side. You wouldn't put it past Brian to use your best china bowl for his canine partner. "You didn't-"

"Relax, I grabbed one of my old plastic dishes you _still_ haven't thrown out."

"They were yours to get rid of."

"It's been two years…get a hint." Somehow, his arm has made it around your shoulders, squeezing gently at these half joking, half serious words. "You know, you've really done something with the place."

"Monkey kisses!" Noah exclaims suddenly, sliding down from the sofa to run up to the TV until he's about a foot away from the screen, blocking your view of the two great apes embracing.

"Aww" Brian comments, obviously captured by this animal documentary.

"What are we even watching? TV's off limits on Sunday mornings."

"This is educational!"

"Sure it is…"

"Just watch, this old alpha male found this orphaned baby chimp and at first, they didn't even interact so they thought the baby was going to starve to death, but then he adopted him. And now, just look at them! He's riding on his back and everything!" He exclaims this with the kind of emotion usually reserved for Mets tickets or Knicks games.

"Uh-huh." You nudge his side, smirking at him, reminding yourself just how much of a softie he really is on the inside. "You want me to grab some tissues for you there?"

"Mock all you want, this is love."

"It's instinct, Bri. That's what wild animals do- Noah, no! Come back here, you're too close to the screen…Noah!"

Your son gives you an accusing, earth shattering look as you chide him for leaning in to kiss the TV screen. "Monkeys!" he repeats.


End file.
